A/N: This is so PWP, but, yeah, it was fun to write.
Warnings: Slash (duh), graphic-ish details, dub-con, bondage-(ish).
-
Maverick heard rustling, a door slamming behind him, and two distinct thumps.
He struggled against whoever was pinning his arms behind his back, trying to free an arm so he could pull off the black cotton blindfold wrapped around his head, but they held him fast.
"Relax, Mitchell," someone whispered in his ear. It sounded like Hollywood. It was definitely smarmy enough to be Hollywood.
"The fuck are you doing?" Maverick demanded, trying to step on the toes of the guy behind him. They deftly avoided his feet and gave him a sharp poke in the back.
"Top Gun tradition, Mitchell," someone else drawled, and he recognized it as Wolfman's distinctive Southern twang. He started to say something else but broke off and there was scattered snickering. Someone whispered something Maverick didn't quite catch.
"Well, well, well."
Maverick's heart sank. He'd recognize those clipped, lazy tones anywhere.
Iceman rested his hand on Maverick's shoulder, stroking him through the fabric of his shirt. "Look who we have here."
"What's going on?" Maverick said, trying not to let on to his state of panic. But really, how calm could you be when you were unexpectedly ambushed from behind in the locker rooms, blindfolded, and dragged off to some mysterious location where Tom Jerky McAsshole Kazansky proceeded to fondle you?
Not very.
"Take a pill, Maverick," Iceman said disparagingly. "You're among friends."
"Bullshit."
The-guy-who-might-have-been-Hollywood shoved him to his knees and he hit tile. So they were in the showers. Maverick swore under his breath.
"Let him go," Iceman said. Whoever was pinning his arms let go and tied his wrists, tight.
"Now, Mitchell --"
"What's going on?" Maverick repeated. It came out in a snarl.
"I'm getting to that. You're so goddamned impatient." Iceman paused. "Now, Mitchell, do you know why you're here?"
"Top Gun tradition?"
More laughter.
"Pull his blindfold off," Iceman said.
Someone complied. Maverick blinked a few times and looked up. He caught a glimpse of Iceman and Slider standing in front of him, Slider with his arm draped over Iceman's shoulder, both of them dressed in civvies, and then Iceman seized a fistful of short, dark hair and shoved his head back down. He glared at the while tile floor.
"You could call it that," said Iceman, "after all, most of the guys who pass through these hallowed halls are a little... omosessuale."
Someone, probably Hollywood, began to laugh at that like you would at a dirty joke, but Maverick didn't see the humor. Or speak Italian.
"Okay, Kazansky, very funny," Maverick said, "you're fucking hilarious. Untie me."
"I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid we can't do that," said Hollywood.
Maverick looked up and Iceman smirked and walked behind him, trailing his fingers down Maverick's spine. He felt the urge to smack Ice's hand away, but his hands were still tied fast.
"You're here because we feel," Iceman whispered, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against Maverick's ear, "you're getting a bit too uppity. After all, Maverick, you're four points behind me."
"Three."
"And besides that," Hollywood chimed in, "we all know how you've been looking at Ice lately, Mitchell."
Iceman slipped his fingers lower, skimming them against the fly of his jeans. Maverick's breath hitched.
"What are you talking about?" Maverick said, breaking into a cold sweat. He sat back unsteadily, trying to pull his hands out of their bindings, but Chipper grabbed his wrists and stopped him.
"Don't play dumb, Mitchell. You know," Hollywood said. "And I don't blame you. Iceman's a pretty good-looking son of a bitch."
Slider laughed loudly and fixed Maverick with a territorial glare.
"Hollywood," Iceman said. "Shut up."
Hollywood turned and looked at Iceman reproachfully. "'Scuse me?"
"You heard me, I said shut up," said Iceman coolly, and stood.
Maverick watched the shifting power dynamic with mild interest, but his mind was mostly on how chafed his wrists were and the aching boner pressing against the crotch of his jeans.
"Whatever," Hollywood said, sliding his sunglasses down from where they were perched on his hair and onto his face, hiding his eyes.
Iceman leaned over and murmured in Maverick's ear, "What do you want to do to me?"
His lips grazed Maverick's cheekbone and his heart skipped a beat or two.
"I want to jerk you off," Maverick replied. It came out as a whisper.
"Louder," said Iceman, rising and walking over to Slider. He heard Wolfman (or was it Chipper) shift behind him.
Maverick shook his head, not meeting Iceman's eyes.
"Louder," Iceman repeated, smirking at him.
Maverick gritted his teeth and tried to stand up, but a hand on his back pushed him back down.
"I want to jerk you off," Maverick spat at him. "Then I want you to push me up against a wall and grind against me until I come, and then I want you to fuck me. Hard."
Out of his mouth spilled one of his most treasured fantasies, the one that had kept his mind occupied for the last few weeks.
"Good," Iceman said, and his voice was huskier and half an octave deeper. It sent chills down Maverick's spine.
"Asshole," Maverick hissed, bending over as his erection pulsed harder. Iceman laughed.
"Don't get lippy, Mitchell," he said. "You don't exactly have the upper hand here."
He knelt again and slid his hand up Maverick's thigh, pulling down the zipper of his jeans. Someone else behind him slid them off and cast them to the side.
"Don't worry," Iceman said, feeling Maverick tense underneath him. "I'm not going to fuck you, Mitchell, at least not in front of Hollywood, though that would probably be the highlight of his life."
There were snickers. Hollywood folded his arms and looked away.
"I wasn't worried," Maverick replied, setting his jaw.
"Nice boxers, Mitchell," drawled Wolfman, "but I thought you were a briefs kinda guy."
Slider laughed.
"Leonard," said Iceman.
"Yeah?" Wolfman said stiffly. No one ever called him that, he was always Wolf.
"Shut up," said Iceman, but gentler than he had said it to Hollywood.
Wolfman shut up and looked at Iceman, obsequious.
"What the fuck are you waiting for, Kazansky?" Hollywood demanded. "Are you going to jerk him off or what?"
Chipper, who had been fairly silent so far, chuckled.
"Christ, Hollywood, could you be any more eager?" Slider barked.
"Shut up, Slider, you just have your panties in a bunch because you thought --"
Iceman cleared his throat loudly. Everyone fell quiet again. He pulled Maverick to his feet.
"Untie him."
Wolfman complied. Maverick felt what he now realized was a belt slipped away from his wrists and tumbled to the floor, clinking. His dick was throbbing fiercely now, and he bit down on his lip.
Iceman pushed him against the ocean-blue peeling wood pillar in the middle of the room. Iceman wasn't that big a guy, but he hit Maverick like a ton of bricks, and Maverick winced.
"Where's Sundown?" Maverick said hoarsely.
No one answered. Finally, Slider replied, "Sundown doesn't approve of this unless it's him and Chipper."
"Fuck you," said Chipper.
Iceman began kissing Maverick's neck, moving down until his lips were brushing the individual vertebrae of his back.
Maverick's skin was on fire. "Please, Tom."
Iceman ignored him.
Maverick grabbed Ice's hand and slid it into his boxers. Iceman's fingers tightened around his dick and he rose to his feet, brushing his lips against Maverick's ear.
Hollywood laughed, sleazier than ever. Maverick made a noise low in the back of his throat, a desperate, humiliated moan.
Iceman's fingers curled tighter around Maverick, and his heart thudded in his chest, his legs failing underneath him like a skittish, clumsy colt. His brain went blank for a moment and it was all blissful oblivion, ecstasy blooming in his chest, mingling with the vague sense of shame that was already sinking in.
He came into Iceman's palm, finally, and it was more sweet relief than anything. Maverick stumbled and fell against him and Iceman pushed him off gently. "Go clean up," he said, handing Maverick a towel. He staggered away from them, the group of Chesire Cat smiles with dark, glinting sunglasses hiding their eyes, and into the nearest shower.
As the water ran, he wiped the come off of himself. The conversation outside started up again.
"Remember when we did this with Cougar? Back in flight school?"
"Yeah," said Iceman.
"Too bad he got married," Hollywood said. "He was pretty good in the sack. Hot little body."
Iceman snorted.
"Like you ever slept with Cougar," drawled Wolfman. Despite the brush-off, he sounded jealous.
"I've done a lot of things you don't know about."
"Suuuure."
"Asshole," Hollywood snapped.
"If the tongue fits," said Slider.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
Maverick shut the water off, tossed his soaked boxers aside, and pulled the towel over himself. He no longer felt vulnerable. If Iceman touched him now, it would be on Maverick's terms.
He stepped out from behind the curtain and everyone looked at him. Iceman beckoned him over and slid an arm around him, pulling him close to his body, watching Hollywood carefully. Hollywood looked away.
"What about you, Mitchell, you and Cougar ever..." Hollywood made an obscene hand gesture.
"I didn't know him that well," Maverick said. "He was squadron leader and I was... I didn't know him that well."
Maverick felt Iceman studying him curiously. He did that sometimes, just looked and looked at him, and it had always made Maverick uneasy. Like if he let Ice look too long, he might actually see.
And then Wolfman brought up the World Series and everyone talked about that. Maverick turned his back to the group, kicked the towel away from him, and slid his jeans on, commando.
Maverick heard the lull in the conversation that came as everyone glanced at his ass, but he didn't mind.
In fact, he'd never admit it, but he enjoyed every second of it.
He turned around and made his way to Iceman again, who pulled him close in one comfortable motion.
"You know, Barry Bonds got caught with a transvestite a month ago," Slider said, breaking the silence.
"Of course," Hollywood scoffed. "It's always the homophobes that are the first to throw their legs in the air."
"He's not a homophobe," Wolfman said.
"You don't think so."
Iceman slid an arm around Maverick's waist, hooking a finger in the beltloop of his jeans, brushing against his short hairs. His dick was diamond-hard against Maverick's ass.
"I don't know why you think so."
"Yeah, but look at his stats. Who cares?" said Slider.
"He's only been playing a year."
"He's had a good year."
Iceman whispered in Maverick's ear, "You want to take this someplace else?"
Maverick nodded slightly, his dark hair brushing Iceman's jaw.
"Good," he murmured. "I don't think I'm going to last much longer here."
"I'm surprised you've made it this long anyway."
"Discipline, Mitchell, discipline."
"He had forty-eight RBIs. You're telling me that's good, Slider? For a guy with one arm, maybe."
"He's got potential. Everyone says so."
"... sixteen home runs. For the entire season."
"Please."
"No, you please."
"Ice," Maverick moaned, shifting against him. Iceman held him tighter and his dick pressed deeper against Maverick, his breath hitching.
Everyone who had been observing Hollywood and Slider like a tennis match snapped their attention to Iceman and Maverick.
"Jesus, get a room," said Hollywood, obviously miffed at being interrupted.
"Maybe you two should get a room," Iceman said coolly, grinding against Maverick as he did. "I see you trying to steal my RIO out from under my nose, Neven."
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," replied Hollywood.
"Plenty of the greats have started out with shitty averages," said Slider.
"But that's just mediocre."
"He's a rookie."
"You're a rookie," Wolfman snapped, nonsensically. "I'm getting out of here," he said, rising to his feet. "Wood..."
"I'm coming..."
"You're not the only one," said Chipper, who had been almost silent for the last ten minutes. There was a beat and then everyone laughed earnestly. Maverick felt Iceman's chest vibrate with a chuckle despite himself.
Everyone else filtered slowly out of the showers, including Slider, who afforded Iceman a glance filled with meaning before he did. Maverick tried to decode it and couldn't.
"So," Iceman said when everyone was gone, sliding a hand down over Maverick's waist. "Bet you're glad I kidnapped you," he muttered, running his tongue along Maverick's jaw, grinding and shifting against him in earnest now.
"Maybe," Maverick moaned, arching against him, back muscles sliding against Iceman's abs.
"Tease," Iceman growled, popping the buttons of Maverick's jeans, fingers playing against the zipper. They fell to the floor and Maverick stood naked, jaw set defiantly.
Iceman pulled his shirt off over his head. Maverick's gut twisted as Iceman took his own jeans off, erection outlined beneath his boxers, and he watched as they fell to the floor, too.
"I'm willing to bet you didn't do this with Cougar," Maverick whispered, eyes on Iceman's crotch.
"No, Mitchell," said Iceman, lazy grin spreading. "You're special."