FIC: Shark Week (Iceman/Maverick, R)
TITLE: Shark Week
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Iceman/Maverick
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Maybe “Shark” would have been a better name for Iceman.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For smallfandomflsh challenge #67: home.
home [hohm], homed, hom·ing
verb to proceed toward a specified target: The missile homed in on the target.
It’s not like there was a naming ceremony or anything; you got your call sign organically. Iceman had been one of the first in his class to earn one, though; they were only a few weeks into flight school when somebody-maybe Badger-had said, in a fit of pique, “You prick. You’re cold as ice, man,” and it had just stuck.
The thing with the call sign was, because it was your name in your plane and your life was what happened when you were in the cockpit, you got more attached to it than your real name. It became your real name; you became the person the name belonged to.
Maybe it wasn’t the most accurate, Maverick mused, paying attention to Ice instead of the lecture. Maybe “Shark” would have been better. Ice had that flat, dead stare; that toothy, joyless grin. And he could scent blood in the water better than anyone Maverick had ever seen.
Like he knew Maverick was thinking about him, Ice swung his freezing blue gaze over to him. Maverick immediately turned back to the lecture, pretending he couldn’t feel his cheeks heat, pretending he couldn’t still feel Ice’s scrutiny boring a laser-precise hole into the back of his neck.
When class released, Maverick hurried down the hall, but Ice-damn him-had longer legs, and he was faster without trying. All of a sudden, Maverick felt Ice’s breath on the back of his neck.
He spun around. Ice was looming before him, pale eyes sparkling.
“Hot date?” he asked.
Maverick’s eyes flickered briefly down the hall to make sure there were no COs within earshot-there was nobody; they were alone.
“Fuck you, Iceman,” he said.
Ice grinned his shark grin, all teeth and menace.
“Oh, is that what you want?” he purred. “I knew you were into blondes . . .”
Maverick took a swing at him. Ice ducked the punch; when Maverick rushed forward at him, Ice, still bent over, pushed back, driving Maverick back into the wall. Ice straightened, the great broad force of him keeping Maverick pinned in place. He was still smiling, the bastard.
“Temper, temper.”
Maverick growled, strained against Ice’s hold. “Let me go.”
Iceman cocked his head, regarded Maverick like a cat might a mouse it was toying with.
“Now why would I want to do that?” He leaned closer. Ice’s breath smelled sharply of spearmint, and somehow Maverick was surprised to find it warm. “Why would you want me to do that?”
Ice bit down slowly, so agonizingly slowly, on the flesh of Maverick’s bottom lip. He followed with his tongue; Maverick gasped into Ice’s parted mouth. Ice’s hand skated over the front of Maverick’s uniform, the heel of his palm settling roughly over the bulge in Maverick’s pants.
Maverick closed his eyes, and he breathed in the sweet, icy scent of Ice’s breath-so close-and he thrust into Ice’s hand until he came, his shoulders braced on the wall, beads of sweat coming up on his neck and forehead. As Maverick’s pulse beat like runway lights behind his closed eyelids, throbbing red and black, red and black, Ice pressed a kiss-surprisingly gentle-to his lips.
And then the broad force of him was gone. Maverick’s eyes flew open as he was let go; he watched Ice walk down the hall, away from him. Ice looked back briefly, his pale eyes gleaming.
He grinned his shark grin.