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compacflt · 11 months

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I absolutely adore your writing!!! If you're taking prompts, then anything involving Maverick + Ice's academy ring would be 💖💖

In bed. Early afternoon. The mid-‘90s.

Midsummer sex in Southern California is one of those things that feels more romantic than it probably is, maybe just because of how it leaves you: sweltering and sticky and satisfied. It’s two in the afternoon on a Saturday, and he and Ice are currently sweltering and sticky and satisfied, and working on being asleep, with absolutely no plans otherwise. Which is nice. Nice to just do nothing for once in their hectic lives. Well, they have to go to Bradley’s Little League game around seven, and then take him out to dinner, per Carole’s orders, but that’s it. Otherwise no plans.

He’s just kinda pondering. Thinkin’. They’ve been sleeping all day, so they’re not gonna sleep tonight…maybe Carole will take them out dancing…that would be fun, even if they’re a little old…what was that movie called, Saturday night fever, yeah, he could use some of that…But not right now.

Right now is pretty perfect. Not a hundred percent perfect, because nothing ever is, but pretty close. The sun (maybe too hot, it’s Southern California) is high and strong and golden; the windows (letting in all kinds of bugs because they aren’t screened) are tossed wide open; the curtains (the previous tenant’s, moth-eaten and ratty) are billowing in the breeze; the ceiling fan (creaky and could crash down and kill them any moment) is circulating lazily; Ice (Ice) is dozing next to him. Romantic, in an imperfect, Southern-California way. Easy. Laid-back. No-stress. Maverick is staring up, through eyes-half-closed, at the shimmering ocean-blue caustic reflections of Ice’s Naval Academy ring, swaying on the ceiling in time to his gentle breaths. Kind of beautiful.

And then Maverick has a thought. Well, maybe more of an idea. Which is never good.

And it’s one of those thoughts. One of those ideas. Not necessarily dangerous, per se, but definitely a little impulsive, definitely a little stupid. In college, one of his engineering professors had told him, You know, the problem with you, Mitchell, is that you’re a certifiable genius ninety percent of the time, but it’s that other stupid-ass ten percent that gets you in trouble. Maverick had answered, That’s a solid fucking A.-minus! and nearly got stuck on academic probation. Saying something like that is an A-, stupid-ass ten-percent idea. So, too, is the idea he’s currently having. But he’s not gonna stop himself from having it. He’s fucked-out and still up for anything. He’s in his early thirties. Basically puberty round II, and he’s in bed with Tom Kazansky, who’s resting his big Naval-Academy-ornamented hand on his chest, so excuse him for not thinking straight.

Maverick picks up Ice’s right hand, the one on his chest, and holds it gently, trying not to wake him. He wants to get a good look at this ring. He’s never really looked at it up close before. That ugly gaudy blue stone is almost surely fake. Glass, maybe. What’s it taste like?

He brings Ice’s hand to his mouth. Doesn’t stick Ice’s whole ring finger inside, because Ice would wake up then, but he does lap the jewel of the ring with his tongue (tastes like Ice’s sweat, as expected), and then bites the crown, and then draws as much of the ring into his mouth as possible. Just trying to get it wet. Tracing it with his tongue for sensory pleasure. When he takes it out of his mouth, some of his spit goes with it. And now, sufficiently lubricated, he reaches up with his other hand to wriggle it off, so curious, brain-addled, a little desperate, his chin still wet with his own saliva…

…and Ice whines, “…No.” Barely even a coherent sound. Almost like a moan. Fuck, so close to a moan.

“No?” Maverick whispers. His fingers go still on the ring, indecisive.

“Already tried,” Ice breathes, then sniffs and licks his lips and swallows and sighs. Eyes unmoving behind his eyelids.

This thought goes straight to Maverick’s dick. Ice, experimenting. “…You…have?”

“Doesn’t fit.”

He can hear himself breathing for a moment. Shaky breaths. “…Even soft?”

Ice’s face scrunches in half-asleep annoyance, mock-wounded offense. “You’ve seen me.” You’ve seen me soft, you know I’m not fitting in a ring meant for my finger. Okay. Maybe that should’ve been obvious. But Maverick sometimes loses his mind a little when it comes to sticking his dick in places it shouldn’t be, which is how he wound up in bed with Iceman Kazansky in the first place. And also how he keeps winding up in bed with Iceman Kazansky. “…Even soft.”

Maverick whispers, “…Can I… try?”

Ice grumbles, “No-Gimme-my-fuckin-hand-back.” And he pulls his hand away and half-consciously wipes the spit off on the sheet and then starts moving and lumbering and shifting his weight in bed, preparing, as only half-asleep people can prepare, to roll over onto his other side. As he does, he keeps on mumbling, his brain clearly not online yet, “Not-takin-you-to-the hospital ‘cause you got stuck-in-my…fuckin’…if you wan’ me to jerk-you-off wearing-it, okay, I’ve done that forty-one-thousand-times…but not…” And his other shoulder hits the mattress and Maverick can hear, in the cadence of his breathing, that he’s immediately passed out cold again.

Maverick pokes him and prods him and wakes him up. “Ice.”

“…What.”

“You just said you would. You can’t say it and then fall asleep.”

Ice mumbles something very rude, but reaches back behind himself anyway, gropes around blindly until he finds enough purchase to give Maverick a few half-hearted and not-very-compelling tugs.

Then, apparently getting tired, he pulls his arm back and carelessly orders (rather lucidly for a man who’s supposedly sleeping), “I’m sleeping, Maverick. Finish yourself off.”

“…Gimme it.”

Ice acquiesces, if only to make Maverick leave him alone; and pulls his ring off and passes it over his own freckled shoulder.

No, of course it doesn’t fit, even only half-hard. Maverick’s flopped over onto his back to try. He glances over at Ice—at the downy invisible fuzz on his shoulders glowing white in the sun, at the smooth suntanned plane of his back, at the sheet pooling over the sharp angle of his hipbone—then back to himself. Gives himself a couple pumps, gets himself all the way hard, sets the ring atop his cock like a little crown, looks over at Ice again, wishes he were awake so they could laugh about this together for a minute and then Ice could tell him to not be so fucking juvenile and then suck him off. Ring in his mouth as he does. (That would probably hurt, actually. All that motion and all that metal. Lots of ways that could go wrong. Moving on.)

And then—here’s a thought—Maverick…puts it on. Just slips it onto his right ring finger. Steps into a heritage he’s never owned. Could’ve, but never will.

It does feel powerful, to wear it. Like marrying the Navy. This is forever, Navy-baby. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. He imagines the life he could’ve had at the Academy; and wonders if Ice, who was twenty-one when Maverick was still only eighteen, would have even given him the time of day. Probably would’ve shoved him into lockers in high school. Okay, that’s a turn-on, too, weirdly. Okay. Things to consider. The brass of the ring is still warm from Ice’s long slender fingers. Feels good. Inspires the question: does Ice keep the ring on when he jacks off out at sea? Probably. It does feel good. Feels powerful. The historical force of America’s Navy, condensed into the force with which he’s gripping his own cock. (And other normal thoughts.) Yeah, Ice probably keeps it on. Definitely. He’s married to the Navy. Jacking off out at sea wearing his Navy wedding ring is just consummating the marriage. (And other normal thoughts.) Maverick wonders how many times Ice has done exactly what he’s doing now. And that’s a turn-on, too, obviously.

He turns onto his side, tips his forehead against Ice’s upper spine, mouths at the velvety skin there, presses his nose against him. Of course there’s the musk and salt of his dried sweat, but also the softer, cleaner smell of him that Maverick’s come to recognize as unmistakably Ice…who left the Naval Academy as Brigade Commander and whose class ring is being worn by the hand Maverick’s slowly lazily fucking…willingly given…Ice has always kept it on, for all their various activities. Married to the Navy even with his fingers knuckle-deep inside Maverick. Sort of like an extramarital affair. Maverick likes being the other woman; and also, those are good memories, the ones where Ice was knuckle-deep inside him, and this ring was pressed up against the most intimate part of him, does the Navy know you’re cheating on her with me? —he comes a little quicker than he had intended, and a lot more quietly than he thought he would; just sort of lets it wash over him, inevitable, unsurprising. Not earthshattering or anything, but he also wasn’t dragging it out.

And then he has another thought, ooh, goody! —lodging itself inside his honey-thick burning pleasure. So he indulges this impulse, too, and before the last couple spurts, he thumbs Ice’s ring off into his palm and then cups himself loosely and finishes half onto the ring and half onto the sheets. (It’s laundry day. That’s why they were up all night having sex, and not exactly stressing about the mess. Ice has Maverick’s laundry schedule memorized by now.) Fuck. That’s good.

Before the clarity can hit him and take all the fun out of his idea, he catches his breath, solidifies, and holds the wet ring back over Ice’s shoulder—has to tap him to drag him back into the land of the living. Ice startles a little, but he accepts the ring back into his hand. What’s he gonna say? What’s he gonna do? It’s got Maverick’s come all over it! Maverick is instigating. Intentionally.

…Ice just sleepily puts it back on, and in a couple seconds is dead to the world again.

Maverick’s stuck there for a minute, his brain going clear and his mouth open idiotically, but then he closes it. There’s nothing he can say. Yeah. That was the logical conclusion of that interaction. Whatever.

He smiles to himself, yawns, and rolls over to doze off again. Deal with it later.

And a few slow golden hours later, when the sun is floating orange and swollen above the horizon outside, and the alarm Maverick set on his digital watch goes off, ensuring they don’t sleep through Bradley’s baseball game, Ice groggily comes to and sits up on the side of the bed and yawns big and fucks up his already-fucked hair a little more with his fingers. Sighs, drowsily drags a hand down his stubble, scrapes a hand over his stomach, itches the hair on his chest. Then he looks at his right hand, at the glinting ring, glinting a little duller because of what’s dried on it; then he glances accusingly down at Maverick, who’s still stretching next to him long and lazy like a cat, silently inquiring, …did you…? And Maverick (who hates being accused of anything, even and especially if he’s guilty) huffs and rolls his eyes at the presumption, but finally relents, yeah, I did. And Ice just exhaustedly nods and smiles and shrugs his shoulders in common understanding, saying, yeah, I get it; don’t worry about it; it does that to me, too… and then tiredly heaves himself out of bed to go wash his hands.

#obviously ns/fw below the cut #this is also for the anon who asked for ‘icemav + 🐓💍🫡’#which COULD be icemav + roosters wedding but could ALSO be icemav + cock ring #(the dangers of asking for emojis in this fandom)#and also #I don’t know how you could read MY very chaste vanilla boring fics & think i would know how to write cock rings but thanks anyways #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #icemav #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #🫡🫡🫡#soundtrack for this one is ‘1995’ by the radio dept and OBVIOUSLY #the glue song by clairo & beabadoobee #stuck in the glue… of you <3

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