FIC: Flush (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, NC-17)
TITLE: Flush
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell/Tom “Iceman” Kazansky
SUMMARY: Maverick loses a stupid bet to Ice, and then decides to follow his sword.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for the top_gun_kink prompt “Can we all agree that Iceman's probably fucking amazing at poker? Yes? Okay then. Iceman/Maverick. Maverick bets his ass, literally.”
Maverick doesn’t like to give Iceman too much credit, because mostly he thinks Ice lacks imagination and backbone, and that without those, he’s not much better than an autopilot with a bleach job. And it’s impossible to consider that Ice may actually be better than Maverick at some things, except maybe brownnosing or ironing his uniform or some useless shit like that.
But of course, Maverick also thinks that his own confidence level has never gotten him into trouble, so maybe he’s wrong a couple times.
It’s Saturday night, and they’re packed into Wolfman and Hollywood’s house playing poker. They’re a couple hours in, and by this time, even Maverick realizes that the level of competitiveness he is feeling toward the other members of his TOPGUN class is reaching truly ridiculous proportions. Especially when it comes to Iceman, who is seated across the table from Maverick, and currently beating Maverick in the TOPGUN competition by one point. One. Point. Ice has the best poker face Maverick’s ever seen, but he’s a conservative bettor, which means Maverick has a chance to beat him through sheer bravado.
Wolfman and Hollywood are wasted, and have started folding every hand. Ice has been nursing one drink the entire game, and Maverick stopped drinking, too, in case it took the edge of his game. Slider’s broke, Goose is over it, and Maverick himself is on his last few dollars, so this is probably the last hand.
And he’s going to win it.
Maverick is holding a nine-high straight flush, hearts. He’d started out with a nine, the eight, and a seven, had traded in a pair of twos hoping for the ten and the jack, and had lucked into the five and six. Jack-high would be better, but it’s a strong hand and it’s the end of the night, and Ice’s cool, steady demeanor is making him want to kick his teeth in, so he’s going to win this hand or die trying.
“Ice, fucking bid already,” Maverick snaps, “I’m growing old here.”
Ice doesn’t even blink. “I’ll see you and raise fifty.”
Goose exhales slowly, tosses his cards to the table, facedown. “Too rich for my blood, Tom.”
“Just you and me, Maverick,” Ice says, and his creepy gold gaze is locked on Maverick like he can see through him.
Maverick grinds his back molars together, hard.
“Call,” he says, but when he goes through his wallet, he’s only got a five. Goose refuses to back him up.
“You’re going to have to sweeten the pot, Maverick,” Ice says.
Maverick looks at the line of hearts in his hands, and he looks at Ice’s stupid relaxed face, and he thinks of that one point hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles.
He grins. “Okay. I’ve got something sweet for you, Kazansky. How about my ass?”
Ice goes a little rigid in a way that is extremely rewarding. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about fucking me, Ice.”
“Maverick,” Goose hisses, but Maverick isn’t paying attention to him. He’s paying attention to Ice, who is blushing. The uptight prick is honest to God blushing.
“You’re going to regret this,” Slider says, but Maverick’s not listening to him, either.
“How about it, Ice?” Maverick asks sweetly.
Ice smiles coldly. He’s still blushing, but his voice is steady. “I accept your ante, Mitchell. Let’s see your cards.”
Maverick lays down his hand slowly, five hearts in a pretty little row.
“Interesting,” Ice says, and for the first time, Maverick feels a little unsure about this.
Ice lays his cards down all at once, but it takes a moment for Maverick to read them. His hand is all hearts, too, and Maverick wonders what the odds of that are.
Royal flush, with Maverick’s fucking jack and ten right there at the end. Maverick feels like the jack is winking at him. Son of a bitch.
There’s a lot of noise and movement all of a sudden, everyone else reacting to Ice’s cards, but Maverick and Ice are stock still. Maverick is looking at Ice’s cards, and Ice is looking at him.
“My place, zero two hundred hours,” Ice says, and then he smiles.
***
Maverick shows up. He knocks, and stands sweating on the stoop for a long minute before the door opens and Ice appears, dressed down in sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and bare feet. The expression on his face is soft, and Maverick can’t recall ever seeing Ice like this, relaxed and a little amused. The small smile curling up the corner of his mouth might be genuine.
“Relax, Mitchell,” Ice says. “I’m not going to hold you to it. Why don’t you go on home?”
Impossibly, Maverick feels angry. “I’m not scared of you, Iceman.”
Ice just looks at him, his gaze cool and even.
“Okay,” he says finally. He nods behind him, back into the dark house. “Bedroom’s this way.”
Maverick follows Ice down the hall. Each step seems to take more effort, like he is walking into a black hole: gravity increases on him with every step.
All the TOPGUN houses are nearly identical, so Ice’s bedroom looks a lot like Maverick’s. Except it’s painfully neat: the sheets have envelope sharp creases, and the few personal items visible on the dresser and bedside table are lined up meticulously. Maverick tries to look at the bed, because the alternative is looking at Ice and that damn weird smile plastered on his face, but the pattern on the bedspread makes him dizzy. Ice steps forward, closing the space between them. They are maybe six inches apart, now, and Maverick can feel the heat rolling off Ice, which is so strange, that the fucking Iceman is a human being with pedestrian things like body heat. Ice reaches out and rests his hands on Maverick’s chest, just rests them there.
“You sure about this?” Ice asks, and his voice is unlike Maverick’s ever heard it, soft and bearing no challenge whatsoever.
Maverick feels his chin jut up, anyway, and he locks down Ice’s gaze. “I’m not backing out of this.”
Ice studies his face. After a moment, he nods. “Okay. Well, you can stop this at any time. Just say the word.”
Maverick’s eyes widen. “You want, like, a safe word? Are you gonna . . . is there gonna be some . . . advanced stuff . . . ?”
Ice rolls his eyes. “I meant ‘no.’ That word.”
“Oh.”
Ice chuckles. He rubs his palms over Maverick’s chest, then takes his t-shirt by the hem and tugs it off over his head. Ice is looking at him, his expression relaxed, almost passive. Maverick would almost prefer his usual cockiness, that fake smile that’s all teeth and challenge, because he doesn’t know how to react to this side of him. Maverick can’t bear to just stand there anymore with Ice looking at him like that, so he starts unbuckling his own belt, trying to get this show on the road. But Ice stops him, Ice’s hands wrapping around Maverick’s wrists, gently arresting his motion.
“I get to do that.”
Maverick’s mouth goes dry. Ice moves Maverick’s hands aside, and meets his eyes as he slowly unbuckles Maverick’s belt, as he zips down his fly. Ice pushes Maverick’s pants down. Maverick pulls off his sneakers and kicks his pants and underwear to the floor, leaving him standing before Ice stark naked. Ice’s eyes trail over Maverick’s body, lazy, like he is confident they have all night. The thought sends frissons of anxiety fluttering through Maverick’s stomach; is this going to take all night?
“On the bed.”
Feeling a little sick, Maverick lays down on the bed, face down. Behind him, Ice laughs.
“We’re not to that part yet, Mitchell. Sit up, face me.”
Maverick does as he’s told, making himself comfortable against the pillows cushioning Ice’s headboard. Ice lowers himself to the bed, climbing over Maverick, and it strikes Maverick how fucking big Ice is, huge, really, in comparison, and he wonders how big Ice is down there, and how much it’s going to hurt when he . . .
And then Maverick really, really wants a little space between them, but he wants it without having to admit to Ice that he was wrong, that he was stupid to make the bet and that now he’s afraid. His brain fumbles for a solution, finally coming up with, “Hey, Ice, are you gonna take your clothes off, or what?”
Ice pauses, and he looks a little pleased. “Do you want me to?”
“Sure.”
Ice stands up, and begins to undress himself. Maverick watches, and it’s not like he’s really one to have opinions about guys’ bodies or anything, but Ice is objectively beautiful. He’s lean but lightly muscled, like a racehorse or something, and somehow the only thing prettier than his honey gold tan is the paler band just visible above the waistband of his boxers. And Maverick’s never really thought about a guy’s tan lines before, but now he’s really, really distracted thinking about what else besides paler skin is underneath Ice’s underwear, and when Ice starts crawling back onto the bed with them still on, Maverick objects.
“Come on, man,” he says. “Take everything off.”
Ice just looks at him for a moment, but then he nods, and he gets off the bed again and pulls off his boxers, letting them fall to the floor with the rest of his clothes. And Maverick isn’t really sure why he wanted to see all of Ice-like, know thy enemy or some shit, he guesses-but now he looks. Ice is standing before him, completely exposed and completely fucking at ease with it, which makes Maverick furious, because the cocky son of a bitch should at least have the decency to feel a little abashed while standing butt naked in front of his rival. And now Maverick is really worried, because Ice is indeed big everywhere, and there’s no way that thing’s going to fit inside of him.
Like Ice can’t see the blind panic on Maverick’s face, he climbs back onto the bed, climbing over Maverick, Ice’s knees on either side of Maverick’s hips and his hands planted on either side of Maverick’s head. Ice leans over him, and Maverick isn’t used to feeling this in bed-small, out of control-and it must show in his face, because Ice stops, pulls back a little.
“Really,” he says softly. “We don’t have to do this.”
And the fire of a challenge lights up in Maverick’s belly, and it’s strong enough to cancel out some of the fear, strong enough to make him confident again.
“We’re doing it,” Maverick says, and Ice rolls his eyes, and then he leans down over Maverick and kisses him.
The kiss is gentle but deep, like Ice is trying to learn the taste of him. And Maverick threads his fingers through Ice’s short hair and he pulls him down, hard, because he doesn’t want to see this confusing new side of Ice; he wants the snark and the jaw-snapping and the butting of heads, because he knows how to handle Ice like that, and what he wants to do in this situation is handle it. But Ice refuses to get rough, and he pulls out of Maverick’s grasp, and he continues kissing him soft and slow.
“Relax,” Ice murmurs. His breath is hot, and close, and Maverick feels his skin prickle with sweat. He’s also shivering, and he’s not sure how that works, exactly, hot and cold at the same time, but it’s working.
Ice kisses him, and Ice’s hand, palm flat, brushes over Maverick’s cock. The touch is soft, but Maverick knows it’s deliberate, because it’s really slow, agonizingly slow, and Ice touches him from the heel of his hand to his deft fingertips tickling over the sensitive skin, and Maverick goes so still that for a second, he’s not even breathing. Ice is relaxed against him, all those burnished muscles supple, like it’s not a big deal that he’s got his hand on Maverick’s cock, that it’s not a big deal that his fingers are wrapping around the shaft. Like it’s not a big deal that his touch is practiced and near-perfect, and Maverick would never have imagined it in a million years, but he’s naked in Ice’s bed about to get fucked and he’s getting hard.
“Jesus,” Maverick gasps, and Ice pulls back for a moment, his hand still on Maverick’s cock but no longer moving, his pale eyes studying Maverick’s face.
“You okay?”
Maverick flushes. “Yeah.”
Ice looks at him for a long moment, then nods, barely perceptible, and his hand pumps Maverick’s cock again, a slow steady rhythm like the pistons of a train chugging along. And his mouth falls to Maverick’s mouth, to the delicate skin of his throat, Ice’s lips pressing to Maverick’s pulse point and his teeth pinching gently down on Maverick’s Adam’s apple. Ice kisses over Maverick’s chest, his tongue circling Maverick’s nipple, his free hand tangling idly in Maverick’s chest hair. The hand on Maverick’s cock never stutters, and both of Ice’s hands are so fucking steady that Maverick is furious; Maverick is shaking and sweating and he may be losing his mind, and Ice is cool as a fucking cucumber.
“You fuck,” Maverick pants, and Ice stills for a moment. He looks at Maverick without speaking, and in the dark his light-colored eyes almost glow, like a wild cat’s, and Maverick can’t read his expression. Then Ice’s chest shakes, and Maverick doesn’t understand what’s happening until a moment later when Ice opens his mouth and sound comes out: the son of a bitch is laughing at him.
“Be cool, Mitchell,” Ice purrs, and then he scoots down Maverick’s body until Ice’s head is at Maverick’s waist, and then Ice bows his head and presses his lips in a dainty kiss to Maverick’s cock. Maverick goggles. He’s had lots of blowjobs, okay, but never once in his life has anyone kissed him there, and Ice looks up at him and the fucker is still laughing, and all of a sudden Maverick’s head feels swimmy, and he wonders if he’s dreaming. Ice runs his tongue over Maverick’s length and then takes the tip of Maverick’s cock inside his mouth, which is unfairly talented, and Maverick closes his eyes and just feels it, feels everything, this explosion of sensation coursing through his body.
And it’s not until Maverick realizes that he can feel the laughter rumbling in Ice’s throat echoing in his cock that he comes, but he does come, too soon and loud and unpretty. And so not only did another man get him off, but he made him look like some pimply-assed fourteen-year-old in the process. Maverick hates himself and Ice and Wolfman for organizing the goddamn poker game, but then Ice brings his face up, and he’s soft-eyed and smiling, fond, and he presses a kiss to Maverick’s hip.
“That good for you, Pete?” Ice asks, and Maverick hides his face, because no one’s ever asked him that before, and Ice looks like he really gives a fuck.
He can feel Ice traveling up his body, that big body blanketing his, and then Ice is gently turning Maverick onto his stomach. And for a moment, Maverick is glad, because now he can hide his face and not look weak, but then he realizes what’s going to happen next, and terror prickles up his spine. He grips hard onto the pillows and tries to breathe normal again. He hears Ice pulling open a drawer of the bedside table, and then pushing it closed. The furniture is cheap pressboard and it whines slightly when used. Maverick expects the same of himself.
Ice’s lips and fingers travel slowly down the line of Maverick’s spine, and suddenly, insanely, Maverick just wants to get on with it.
“Can we-please, I just-I can’t wait anymore.”
There’s a moment of silence, but Ice takes his hands off him. “You’re sure you want to do this?” Ice asks finally, and Maverick hears the weak note in Ice’s voice, and he knows that if he says no, Ice will let him go and he’ll never tell a soul what happened here. But Maverick’s come too far to back out now.
“Fuck yeah,” he says, and there’s barely a beat before he feels pressure against his most intimate space, and then Ice’s slick finger is inside him, and sensors go off, no no no no no no no. But only for a second, and then Maverick’s muscles begin to relax, and Ice’s finger begins to move inside him, and it’s still a little uncomfortable but the sensation is suddenly incredible, and Maverick sees stars. Literal stars. Maverick moans, and Ice pushes another finger into him, stretching him, filling him, and this is more uncomfortable but also more pleasure, and Maverick finds himself pushing back against the pressure, rocking himself up onto Ice’s fingers. Ice says some soft, senseless words, and there’s another finger and that actually hurts, but the pleasure just multiplies on top of the pain, and Ice’s fingers brush against some magic button inside him and Maverick lights up. And he says it, he hears himself say it, “God, please just do it.”
The fingers withdraw, and Maverick feels a sense of loss, of emptiness. And then there’s immense pressure, and the bed rocks as Ice rocks his hips, and Ice pushes into him, shallowly. He pushes in, just an in inch, the blunt tip of him, and then pulls out, and he repeats this a couple times and it hurts and flickers the memory of the pleasure and Maverick could just wring Ice’s neck for either or both, the little shit. And then Ice pushes fully into him, up to the hilt, and it’s so much pain and so much fullness and so alien that Maverick loses his breath for a minute. And then the bad part’s over, and Ice is moving slowly inside him, long slow strokes, and it’s like his fingers but so much better, a universe better, and Maverick cannot believe it, but Iceman is fucking him and he’s enjoying it. He’s enjoying being fucked. He’s getting hard again, even, and just as he’s thinking of touching himself Ice does it, sneaking a hand under him and jacking him off again. And Ice rocks in him, and Maverick rocks against Ice’s hand, and, wonder of all fucking wonders, the biggest gambit of the night-it’s really fucking good.