#048
[Title] Flying High
[Fandom] Top Gun
[Pairing] Iceman/Maverick
[Rating] R; sex, but nothing too explicit
[Word Count] 2,026
[Summary] Written for evildrew. A few hours after Iceman gets his "Top Gun" title, Maverick confronts him. Things go from there. Pretty much PWP.
“You won. Nice job.”
Maverick was standing in the locker room, outfitted in his aviator jacket and a pair of jeans, staring quite intensely at Iceman, who was busy digging for something in his locker. Maverick didn’t care what his rival was looking for. This needed to be taken care of. It was a few hours after the celebrations and while he was sure he’d be killing the mood, he didn’t really care. He’d managed to follow the “Top Gun,” as he was officially considered now, to his locker, and had finally cornered him alone.
The man of the hour jerked, having been completely unaware of the fact that he’d been followed. He slowly turned to face the brown-haired man. “Sure did. Thanks.” That seemed to be enough of a response, in his opinion, since he turned back to his locker and continued to search through it.
Maverick let out an annoyed grunt. He certainly wasn’t going to give up. The two of them had battled back and forth since their first day at Top Gun, but that didn’t mean he was going to quit now. “I would have won, you know. If things had been different.” They both knew what he meant, even if he didn’t have the balls to say it. If Goose hadn’t died, if things hadn’t gone wrong, he’d be the one everyone was slathering with praise and attention. His arms were crossed, and he was still glaring at Iceman’s back with stormy eyes.
Iceman sighed where he stood and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”
This just enraged Maverick even more. If this had been before “the incident,” as everyone had labeled that fateful day when he’d had to go to the hospital to hear the horrific news, Iceman wouldn’t have acted that way. He would have made some smarmy comment about how there was no way Maverick could ever be better than him. He would have ranted about how he was too reckless-about how someone who couldn’t be trusted in a fight wasn’t a good pilot.
Now, there was just this stepping on eggshells. Iceman didn’t want to hurt his feelings or hit any tender spots. The whole thing just pissed him off.
“Just say it,” Maverick growled, clenching his fists.
“What?” That apparently had been a strange enough comment to force Iceman to turn around again. Just what the hell was he looking for, anyway? Maverick got the feeling that the only reason he was acting so consumed by his locker was so that he didn’t have to make eye contact. He hated when people did stuff like that.
“Just say that you’re better than me. Say that I’ve got no chance of ever beating you.” He was being completely serious, staring Iceman down now that he had exposed his front.
Iceman stared back, understandably confused. “What?” he asked again.
“That’s what you used to do. Don’t pussy out just because my gunner died.” He managed a small smirk despite the growing anger and his nails digging into his palms. “That’s what I liked most about you, you asshole.”
After a bit more staring and a raised eyebrow, Iceman broke out into a toothy grin. “All right, Maverick.” He pulled that perfect “asshole” face, with his eyes narrowed in a cocky way and his mouth curved at the ends. “You’ll never be good enough to beat me. Your piloting skills are too rash and you don’t have the head for it, so just quit while you’re ahead, won’t you?” The return of his arrogant side gave him enough confidence to turn his back again, once again raiding his locker. After a few seconds of throwing things aside, he eventually just gave up and slammed the locker door, causing a loud clanging noise to ring through the empty room.
“Hell no,” Maverick responded through a grin. “I’ve got a proposal for you, Ice.” He’d always found the man’s call sign lame and figured he’d make fun of it, if only to raise the tension that was starting to sizzle in the room.
The blonde snapped his head up with a glare. “What is it?” he hissed.
“One-on-one, solo flight, me versus you. Ditch Slider, I’ll fly alone, and we’ll keep score. Thirty minutes in the canyon, and whoever locks-on the most times is the winner.” To make this proposal seem even more forced, he shoved his hand out, expecting it to be grasped by his opponent for a shake to seal the deal.
Iceman considered for a moment, glancing off to look at nothing. He eventually gave a firm nod and stepped forward to shake. “You’ve got it, Maverick.”
-
A few days later, when the weather was perfect for it, both men took to the sky. It was so clear the blue of the sky was blinding, just how Maverick liked it. Flying in imperfect weather could be thrilling, but when a steep climb was bathed in nothing by the bluest of blue, it was one of those feelings that couldn’t be topped. In fact, one of the only things that did beat it was going Mach Two with your hair on fire. He really did love quoting Charlie on that.
That half hour (which Maverick made sure was accurately timed) was spent weaving in and out of the mountains, doing impossibly dangerous nose dives and turning in quick circles, like a game of cat and mouse that kept changing positions. One second Maverick would be about to lock on to the oh-so-elusive plane of his enemy (that’s all Iceman was to him at that moment; an enemy, someone that had to be caught and disposed of), and the next second he’d be in the same position without being sure how it happened.
By the time it was over, Maverick was almost sick from having thrown himself into unspeakable speeds so many times, but he was pumped up on adrenaline and felt like he could have been in the clouds without the need of his plane. As he pulled into a perfect landing and jumped out of the plane, he knew that he’d won. He’d kept meticulous track of how many times each of them had scored a point, even through his hectic flying, and he was absolutely sure that he had come out with the higher score. He also got the feeling that Iceman had been doing the same thing, and was now tearing his hair out while coming down to land.
Maverick stood near his plane, grinning from ear to ear. As Iceman touched down, he strutted over, waiting for him to open the door and get out so that he could mock him. Instead, as the door opened, Maverick found he was being yanked inside with two hands. He was suddenly inside the cockpit, Iceman staring at him. Iceman had this amazing expression on his face that was a mix of a snarl and a smirk. It must have been his anger at losing mingled with the adrenaline from his flying high. After all, both men liked challenging themselves, and both found the other to be a personal challenge, so this sort of “sparring” was enough to get them both tingling.
Maverick found that Wolfman’s constant statements were ringing in his ears.
Those hands that had pulled him in then curled around his shoulders and pushed him back so that his head contacted with the inside of the cockpit. The noise of the impact was a resounding crack that blurred his vision for a moment.
“You little shit,” Iceman said, but his tone was tinged with laughter. “You fucking beat me!”
Maverick grinned across at him, ignoring the pain collected at the back of his head. “I told you so.”
Without warning, Iceman’s face was inches from his. He was shoved against the side of the cockpit so that he was cramped up against it. He suddenly realized just how small of a space they both were in. He also noticed that somehow the plane’s door had been shut-perhaps Iceman had done it while he had been recovering from that earlier shove. His vision was still slightly swimming.
“I haven’t had that good of a time flying in ages,” Iceman growled, voice low and husky. He was definitely close-close enough that Maverick could feel his warm breath on his cheek.
This was the flying high, he told himself. The flying high. The flying high. That was why Iceman was doing this and that was why he didn’t have a problem with it. “The feeling is mutual,” he sputtered out.
Iceman seemed to interpret that in a very special sort of way, since once he’d said it, he found the man’s tongue was in his mouth, pushed in and pressing around, exploring the new territory viciously. Even if his vision had been recovering, it was now thrown back a few stages, mind clouded by the warmth of shared saliva and someone else invading his mouth. He scrunched back further, away from Iceman, but found he had nothing to back into, the cramped wall of the plane digging into his back. He made muffled noises of protest that weren’t heeded.
Shit. He should have known. Iceman and Slider had always acted sort of weird, and that teeth clamping thing had unexplainably unnerved him at the time.
There was no way he was getting away. It was closed in and he couldn’t shove the man away and he was so high on adrenaline and it was hot and this was rough and with Charlie, dammit, it was never, ever rough it was always gentle and he was sick of that he was a man dammit and men needed it to be violent and forceful sometimes and and and maybe it felt good but he wasn’t sure and oh shit Ice’s hand was going somewhere it shouldn’t have and it was pressing over the cloth of his flight suit and grabbing and that felt so good--
He’d forgotten to breathe through his nose. He broke the kiss, gasping for breath, but everything was hot and that hand was still gripping fabric and everything underneath. His lungs fought for air and Iceman was just watching him, head tilted slightly.
“You beat me. I have to have you,” he explained.
“What the shit does that mean?” Maverick barked out between heavy breathing.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Iceman said, hand squeezing tighter.
Maverick let out a strained noise. “I don’t… swing that way… you know…” he panted.
“Neither do I,” Iceman said, grinning. “But we both want to do this, and you know it.”
“Shut up,” Maverick growled.
“You’re only saying that because you don’t want to hear the truth,” Iceman responded, rubbing it in his face.
“Just shut up,” he spat back, leaning forward then to take the preemptive move this time, joining mouths. He grabbed at the neck of the other’s flight suit, tearing at it and pulling it off his shoulders, then downwards. Iceman was meanwhile doing the same thing, and once they were both at least half-stripped, Maverick fell forward, pushing the other man back over the seat and half of the controls (with a few grunts of pain when things dug into either’s side or back) and then continued, wet mouth trailing down bare skin, hands all the while continuing the unclothing.
After that, it all exploded into blurred colors, with sweaty, hot skin, sleeked and bare, the abandoned fabric in the back seat, as both did their best to get comfortable in the small space with grabby hands and nothing for lubrication. It wasn’t clean or graceful, it wasn’t easy or painless, but that didn’t matter. Both of them wanted this raw exertion-the rough hands pressing into tender flesh, the blood that stained without them caring, the biting of ears and shoulders and whatever else.
Iceman didn’t even care that he was the one bleeding the most.
He knew that they would do this again some day, after a similar match.
And he knew that once he won, he’d get that reward.
Maverick didn’t care, either. It wasn’t his plane that was bloody.
[Fandom] Top Gun
[Pairing] Iceman/Maverick
[Rating] R; sex, but nothing too explicit
[Word Count] 2,026
[Summary] Written for evildrew. A few hours after Iceman gets his "Top Gun" title, Maverick confronts him. Things go from there. Pretty much PWP.
“You won. Nice job.”
Maverick was standing in the locker room, outfitted in his aviator jacket and a pair of jeans, staring quite intensely at Iceman, who was busy digging for something in his locker. Maverick didn’t care what his rival was looking for. This needed to be taken care of. It was a few hours after the celebrations and while he was sure he’d be killing the mood, he didn’t really care. He’d managed to follow the “Top Gun,” as he was officially considered now, to his locker, and had finally cornered him alone.
The man of the hour jerked, having been completely unaware of the fact that he’d been followed. He slowly turned to face the brown-haired man. “Sure did. Thanks.” That seemed to be enough of a response, in his opinion, since he turned back to his locker and continued to search through it.
Maverick let out an annoyed grunt. He certainly wasn’t going to give up. The two of them had battled back and forth since their first day at Top Gun, but that didn’t mean he was going to quit now. “I would have won, you know. If things had been different.” They both knew what he meant, even if he didn’t have the balls to say it. If Goose hadn’t died, if things hadn’t gone wrong, he’d be the one everyone was slathering with praise and attention. His arms were crossed, and he was still glaring at Iceman’s back with stormy eyes.
Iceman sighed where he stood and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”
This just enraged Maverick even more. If this had been before “the incident,” as everyone had labeled that fateful day when he’d had to go to the hospital to hear the horrific news, Iceman wouldn’t have acted that way. He would have made some smarmy comment about how there was no way Maverick could ever be better than him. He would have ranted about how he was too reckless-about how someone who couldn’t be trusted in a fight wasn’t a good pilot.
Now, there was just this stepping on eggshells. Iceman didn’t want to hurt his feelings or hit any tender spots. The whole thing just pissed him off.
“Just say it,” Maverick growled, clenching his fists.
“What?” That apparently had been a strange enough comment to force Iceman to turn around again. Just what the hell was he looking for, anyway? Maverick got the feeling that the only reason he was acting so consumed by his locker was so that he didn’t have to make eye contact. He hated when people did stuff like that.
“Just say that you’re better than me. Say that I’ve got no chance of ever beating you.” He was being completely serious, staring Iceman down now that he had exposed his front.
Iceman stared back, understandably confused. “What?” he asked again.
“That’s what you used to do. Don’t pussy out just because my gunner died.” He managed a small smirk despite the growing anger and his nails digging into his palms. “That’s what I liked most about you, you asshole.”
After a bit more staring and a raised eyebrow, Iceman broke out into a toothy grin. “All right, Maverick.” He pulled that perfect “asshole” face, with his eyes narrowed in a cocky way and his mouth curved at the ends. “You’ll never be good enough to beat me. Your piloting skills are too rash and you don’t have the head for it, so just quit while you’re ahead, won’t you?” The return of his arrogant side gave him enough confidence to turn his back again, once again raiding his locker. After a few seconds of throwing things aside, he eventually just gave up and slammed the locker door, causing a loud clanging noise to ring through the empty room.
“Hell no,” Maverick responded through a grin. “I’ve got a proposal for you, Ice.” He’d always found the man’s call sign lame and figured he’d make fun of it, if only to raise the tension that was starting to sizzle in the room.
The blonde snapped his head up with a glare. “What is it?” he hissed.
“One-on-one, solo flight, me versus you. Ditch Slider, I’ll fly alone, and we’ll keep score. Thirty minutes in the canyon, and whoever locks-on the most times is the winner.” To make this proposal seem even more forced, he shoved his hand out, expecting it to be grasped by his opponent for a shake to seal the deal.
Iceman considered for a moment, glancing off to look at nothing. He eventually gave a firm nod and stepped forward to shake. “You’ve got it, Maverick.”
-
A few days later, when the weather was perfect for it, both men took to the sky. It was so clear the blue of the sky was blinding, just how Maverick liked it. Flying in imperfect weather could be thrilling, but when a steep climb was bathed in nothing by the bluest of blue, it was one of those feelings that couldn’t be topped. In fact, one of the only things that did beat it was going Mach Two with your hair on fire. He really did love quoting Charlie on that.
That half hour (which Maverick made sure was accurately timed) was spent weaving in and out of the mountains, doing impossibly dangerous nose dives and turning in quick circles, like a game of cat and mouse that kept changing positions. One second Maverick would be about to lock on to the oh-so-elusive plane of his enemy (that’s all Iceman was to him at that moment; an enemy, someone that had to be caught and disposed of), and the next second he’d be in the same position without being sure how it happened.
By the time it was over, Maverick was almost sick from having thrown himself into unspeakable speeds so many times, but he was pumped up on adrenaline and felt like he could have been in the clouds without the need of his plane. As he pulled into a perfect landing and jumped out of the plane, he knew that he’d won. He’d kept meticulous track of how many times each of them had scored a point, even through his hectic flying, and he was absolutely sure that he had come out with the higher score. He also got the feeling that Iceman had been doing the same thing, and was now tearing his hair out while coming down to land.
Maverick stood near his plane, grinning from ear to ear. As Iceman touched down, he strutted over, waiting for him to open the door and get out so that he could mock him. Instead, as the door opened, Maverick found he was being yanked inside with two hands. He was suddenly inside the cockpit, Iceman staring at him. Iceman had this amazing expression on his face that was a mix of a snarl and a smirk. It must have been his anger at losing mingled with the adrenaline from his flying high. After all, both men liked challenging themselves, and both found the other to be a personal challenge, so this sort of “sparring” was enough to get them both tingling.
Maverick found that Wolfman’s constant statements were ringing in his ears.
Those hands that had pulled him in then curled around his shoulders and pushed him back so that his head contacted with the inside of the cockpit. The noise of the impact was a resounding crack that blurred his vision for a moment.
“You little shit,” Iceman said, but his tone was tinged with laughter. “You fucking beat me!”
Maverick grinned across at him, ignoring the pain collected at the back of his head. “I told you so.”
Without warning, Iceman’s face was inches from his. He was shoved against the side of the cockpit so that he was cramped up against it. He suddenly realized just how small of a space they both were in. He also noticed that somehow the plane’s door had been shut-perhaps Iceman had done it while he had been recovering from that earlier shove. His vision was still slightly swimming.
“I haven’t had that good of a time flying in ages,” Iceman growled, voice low and husky. He was definitely close-close enough that Maverick could feel his warm breath on his cheek.
This was the flying high, he told himself. The flying high. The flying high. That was why Iceman was doing this and that was why he didn’t have a problem with it. “The feeling is mutual,” he sputtered out.
Iceman seemed to interpret that in a very special sort of way, since once he’d said it, he found the man’s tongue was in his mouth, pushed in and pressing around, exploring the new territory viciously. Even if his vision had been recovering, it was now thrown back a few stages, mind clouded by the warmth of shared saliva and someone else invading his mouth. He scrunched back further, away from Iceman, but found he had nothing to back into, the cramped wall of the plane digging into his back. He made muffled noises of protest that weren’t heeded.
Shit. He should have known. Iceman and Slider had always acted sort of weird, and that teeth clamping thing had unexplainably unnerved him at the time.
There was no way he was getting away. It was closed in and he couldn’t shove the man away and he was so high on adrenaline and it was hot and this was rough and with Charlie, dammit, it was never, ever rough it was always gentle and he was sick of that he was a man dammit and men needed it to be violent and forceful sometimes and and and maybe it felt good but he wasn’t sure and oh shit Ice’s hand was going somewhere it shouldn’t have and it was pressing over the cloth of his flight suit and grabbing and that felt so good--
He’d forgotten to breathe through his nose. He broke the kiss, gasping for breath, but everything was hot and that hand was still gripping fabric and everything underneath. His lungs fought for air and Iceman was just watching him, head tilted slightly.
“You beat me. I have to have you,” he explained.
“What the shit does that mean?” Maverick barked out between heavy breathing.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Iceman said, hand squeezing tighter.
Maverick let out a strained noise. “I don’t… swing that way… you know…” he panted.
“Neither do I,” Iceman said, grinning. “But we both want to do this, and you know it.”
“Shut up,” Maverick growled.
“You’re only saying that because you don’t want to hear the truth,” Iceman responded, rubbing it in his face.
“Just shut up,” he spat back, leaning forward then to take the preemptive move this time, joining mouths. He grabbed at the neck of the other’s flight suit, tearing at it and pulling it off his shoulders, then downwards. Iceman was meanwhile doing the same thing, and once they were both at least half-stripped, Maverick fell forward, pushing the other man back over the seat and half of the controls (with a few grunts of pain when things dug into either’s side or back) and then continued, wet mouth trailing down bare skin, hands all the while continuing the unclothing.
After that, it all exploded into blurred colors, with sweaty, hot skin, sleeked and bare, the abandoned fabric in the back seat, as both did their best to get comfortable in the small space with grabby hands and nothing for lubrication. It wasn’t clean or graceful, it wasn’t easy or painless, but that didn’t matter. Both of them wanted this raw exertion-the rough hands pressing into tender flesh, the blood that stained without them caring, the biting of ears and shoulders and whatever else.
Iceman didn’t even care that he was the one bleeding the most.
He knew that they would do this again some day, after a similar match.
And he knew that once he won, he’d get that reward.
Maverick didn’t care, either. It wasn’t his plane that was bloody.