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i don't know if you're still active, but i want you to know i reread your "stuck in the middle" series all the time. i know it's all about ice and ron, but the way you write goose is literally perfect. i hear him say "do women wear scarves in summer? what if we stopped somewhere and got you a nice scarf" every time one of my friends has a hickey. i love your work and hope you're doing well 🫶
hey nonnie—
calling myself “active” at this point would probably be too generous, but I lurk from time to time.
and you genuinely have no idea how much this means to me 🥰 . I’m a (pretty obviously) thirsty bitch, but writing Goose was one of my favorite parts of the series. he’s the best boy and I love him dearly.
Hi! Feel free to tell me to fuck off but I was wondering if I could commission the last part of stuck at the navy ball. Its been stuck in my head and I know life is rough right now. If so what would your rate be? Thank you 😊
hey nonnie—
no need to fuck off and no need for a commission. life has been crazy between work and family (I blame the ao3 curse), but I’ll do what I can to actually write out the last chapter. I have an outline around here somewhere…
no promises on a timeline, but I’ll do what I can.
Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron "Slider" Kerner
Summary: Interrupting Iceman.
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering
Chapter: 3/4
Minors DNI
Previous Chapter
Slider's head whips around, shoulders drawn tight toward his ears as the crash of the door startles you both.
"Kerner!"
The split-second of terror subsides with that voice.
Ice.
Slider grunts, stubbornly diving back between your thighs. A man on a mission.
"I know you're up here, and I'm giving you to the count of three."
"No," you whimper, hips rocking against Slider's fingers, urging them to work faster. "Don't stop."
"One."
Instead of responding, Slider's breath ghosts over your clit as he presses two fingers into your cunt, curling them to pinpoint your sweet spot and hurtle you toward the edge.
The click of Ice's shoes is loud as he stalks toward you. "Two."
"So good," Slider hums against your slick skin. You squeeze your eyes closed, keening at the praise. "Almost there, baby."
Sli hisses as fingers fist in his short hair and yank him from between your legs.
"Three."
You whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation and the pour of cool night air over heated skin.
Slider has the audacity to flash Ice a smug smile. "Oh," he says as if he hadn't known the two of you were no longer alone. "Hey, Ice."
Pale eyes narrow as if asking Slider if that's the game they're going to play, then Ice pulls a tissue from his pocket and holds it to his RIO. "You've got lipstick on your face."
Slider's tongue peeks out to lick his lips. "That's not the only thing on my face."
Ice doesn't dignify him with a response, only releasing Slider when he stands and steps back to give you enough space for Ice to resettle you—steadying you on your own two feet and smoothing wrinkled velvet before procuring another tissue to help clean up the rouge smudged beyond the bounds of your lips.
Once you're deemed presentable, Ice descends the steps with his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with an insistent tug that makes you feel more like an insolent child than his date. You want to stamp your feet as Ice assures you that he only needs to talk to a couple more officers he wants to speak with before you can get out of there.
Between the forced separation through staggered travel to D.C. and the night's two encounters—both of which had taken you to the very edge before leaving you high and dry—you're at your limit. So, to say you aren't paying attention to the conversation is an understatement. How are you supposed to pay attention to anything when you're oscillating between the jitters of unsated arousal and lightly filtered frustration?
Because who the hell does he think he is—do they think they are—to draw you into their little macho pissing contest? It's a wonder Iceman and Slider can both fit into the cockpit with their egos so blown out of proportion.
What should it matter in the end? They know you're going home with both of them.
Not that you get to say any of this. Instead, you're left to stew with empty eyes, a pinched smile, and a clenched fist at Ice's side as he makes a good impression on a commander. You're scraping the barrel with each half-hearted laugh at the officer's dull jokes, the Brut in your glass swirling between your fingers untouched. Each shift of your legs brings you closer to angry tears as the spit between them turns tacky, the microabrasions from Slider's stubble smarts reminding you of your lack of undergarment and the dissatisfied, borderline painful feeling of emptiness.
But it'll be a cold day in hell before you let any tears fall. You have your own pride to manage, and besides, no one wants to mingle with the serviceman whose date's eyes burn a tear-stung red.
"How much longer?" you ask Ice once the commander leaves.
Ice gives you an assessing look, eyebrows pulled down, and his head lightly tilted. You can't tell if he feels bad about what he's putting you through or is confused by your shortness of tone. "Impatient?"
You scoff, barely repressing the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you take a sip of your Brut, nose wrinkling as it bursts bitter across your tongue. "Whatever," you huff, done with the conversation and resigning yourself to more of the same. Ice had said there were "a couple" officers he wanted to talk with, after all.
Ice draws a deep breath in through his nose; lips pursed as he looks up to the ceiling. You know he's looking for the right words. You're still determining what those words would be. You know for a fact he won't find them painted on the ceiling.
Lucky for you—because you're not done being upset with him yet—Ice can't pinpoint what he's looking for before you're interrupted.
"Woah!" a familiar blonde excuses, bumbling into Ice and nearly spilling his beer on matching whites. "Sorry about that, still got my sea le– oh! Ice, hey!" Excuse dropped as a beamish grin overtakes Wolfman's face, cheeks tinged pink with drink.
"Wolf," you giggle as Wolf pulls you into a better mood with a friendly hug. It's hard to be all doom and gloom when Wolf's involved; he's a veritable ray of sunshine. "Where's 'Wood?"
"Pfft," he snorts. "Where's anyone? I mean, 'Wood's somewhere with his girl, but one minute I'm with Sli and Chip, the next Sli's gone and Chip's found himself a pretty little thing to dance with." He shrugs, not looking too plussed about his situation.
"I'll dance with you, Wolfie," you jump to offer. "Ice is being boring anyway."
Ice frowns. Wolf laughs. "Who am I to say no to a lady?" he asks, pulling you into an off-kilter twirl. "Don't worry, Ice, she's in good hands!" he calls over his shoulder as you practically drag him toward the dancefloor.
What Wolfman lacks in prowess, he makes up for in enthusiasm. By the time Hollywood and his fiancée find the two of you on the dancefloor—not a surprise since 'Wood and Wolf are practically connected at the hip—you're a little breathless from trying to keep up.
It's a good time, but you can only be so distracted, and it's only a matter of time before you begin scanning the crowd. Either you'll find Slider, or he'll find you, but you'll be damned if he doesn't finish what he started.
You know Ice has people he wants to impress and a ladder he's trying to climb, but shouldn't you be at the top of his list? With this thought at the helm, it isn't long before you spot a head of brown curls that towers above the rest. You rock onto your tiptoes to feed Wolf a lie—bathroom—and push through the crowd alone.
Except as you get closer, it becomes glaringly apparent that this tall brunet is not Slider.
You scowl at no one in particular when you come up empty-handed.
As you decide to keep searching until you find Slider—and, ultimately, relief—someone grabs you from behind.
You whirl around, ready to smack the person's hands off of you.
It's Pete.
You smack him anyway.
"Ow!" Pete yelps, more from surprise than pain. You didn't hit him that hard. "What the hell?!"
"Pete Mitchell, who do you think you are grabbing a lady–"
"You're hardly a lady."
"–from behind like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Pete disarms you with a light pinch to your side that has you clamping your arms against your sides to protect against further tickling. "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Didn't think I'd catch you without one or the other."
You suppress a roll of your eyes. "Who knows."
"Sooo," Pete drawls a bit awkwardly, "does this have anything to do with the weirdness going on between the three of you?"
"Oh my god. You know," you groan, unable to stop yourself from hiding your face in your hands. How embarrassing.
"I don't know-know," Pete's quick to correct, "and I don't want to. But I know something's up."
This isn't something you're delving into with your brother. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Doesn't seem like nothing if you're avoiding them."
"Like you're avoiding Penny's dad?" you snark back. Deflecting. "I'm surprised you decided to stick around."
"He's old. It's probably past his bedtime," Pete says confidently, a smile tugging at his lips. "The night's mine."
"Whatever will you do with this newfound freedom?" you tease.
Pete gives a half-shrug, surveying the room. "I'm sure some poor officer brought his daughter so she could meet the love of her life."
You don't bother holding in a mocking laugh. "And that's you?"
"No." Pete makes a face. "But I can be her something for the night."
"Ew," you grunt because you so do not want to get into that with your brother. "I need a drink."
A hand catches your elbow as you turn. "Going somewhere?"
You refuse to look as you shake Ice's hand off and continue walking.
"So you're going to ignore me." It's a statement.
"Don't you have other people to talk to?"
Ice reaches for your elbow again, turning you so he can meet your eyes with his own. "I want to talk to you."
"That's my cue," Pete mumbles as he slinks into the crowd, presumably to find trouble.
Neither you nor Ice move, and your stomach roils as his jaw sets, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're mad at me."
Part of you wants to tell him off. Instead, you shake your head. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," Ice says, with a curt nod, his shoulders—which had been bunched—rolling back as he becomes more sure of himself. "I can work with that."
Something about the way he says it rankles you, and you sneer. Earlier, you'd been all aboard hanging off Ice's arm, but now you're wound tight enough to burst, and all you want to do is take a hot bath. And now that he's made you this way, you're something that needs to be dealt with.
"Let's grab some fresh air," Ice says, loud enough to settle any eavesdroppers as he leads you toward the outdoor courtyard with a gentle but commanding grasp on your elbow.
But you pass by the turn for the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me?" The smell of cigar smoke thins as you walk along less-traveled hallways.
"I'm taking care of it," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and continues to drag you after him.
Venturing further from the intended party spaces, the lights dim. You doubt the venue means for you to be down here.
Instead of voicing these thoughts, you scoff. "Helpful."
Making sure you're alone, Ice pulls you down a deserted hallway. "You're frustrated. I have people to talk to," he says slowly, sparing you a glance.
You frown. There goes Ice, talking about other people. Again.
He beelines for two unassuming doors, reaching out to the first, but its handle jiggles. Catches. Locked.
"I'm taking care of it."
Before you can challenge that assertion, Ice steps to the side and grabs the handle to the second door, marked STAFF ONLY.
It clicks.
Ice pushes you inside, following close behind.
The light coming through the foot of the door isn't enough to tell you where you are. But the clinical, electric-orange antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies invading your nose, singeing the hairs, is more than enough to give it away.
When you cross your arms over your chest, something falls to the ground with a wooden clack! "By dragging me into a janitor's closet?"
"Well, you said you'd be good for me, but that didn't last long."
You reach for where the handle must be, but Ice anticipates your moodiness and moves to intercept, deflecting your hand. "But the bet was that Slider couldn't get you off." His breath fans your face as he leans in, so you tilt your head away to avoid his lips. Stubborn. Undeterred, he kisses the long line of your neck, and the ghost of soft lips has you holding back a gasp. "So I'm taking care of it."
"What if it doesn't want to be taken care of?"
Sharp teeth are a shock beneath the hinge of your jaw. "Don't be a brat."
A strangled moan trips past your lips as he catches you off guard.
You don't have to see Ice to know he's smirking. "Noted." Then his hand is cupping your breast. "So, are you going to let me take care of you or not?"
You're not proud of how quickly you crumble, but it's like a switch flips. You hope Ice is okay with the whiplash because after an entire night of teasing, you're desperate for relief. "Please," you whimper, pushing yourself further into his orbit. You want so bad it hurts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got you." Ice captures your lips in a heated kiss—nipping at your bottom lip so you hiss and open up for him. He knows what you need, and he's (apparently) going to give it to you.
Your fingers, clumsy in their haste, scramble for Ice's belt, but he brushes them aside. "This is about you. I'll get mine later," he says, tilting your head to the side so he can track wet kisses up to the spot just below your ear, electricity sparking down your spine as teeth tug at the lobe. "When I lay you out on my bed."
A high-pitched, excited moan is your answer, interrupted by Ice's fingers over your lips. "You've gotta be quiet," he purrs, voice low in your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear us."
"Then kiss me." He does. And as you breathe in deep, the whole situation makes you feel like you're back in high school: shelving digging into your lower back like you're sneaking around, trading uncoordinated kisses in the janitor's closet with David Hodges until your brother finds you and rips poor David away for an ass-beating. But infinitely better.
Ice's lips are familiar. Urgent and addictive against your own as he swallows your whimper—nothing like David.
Ice pinches your fat bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a slick smack. You suck in a sharp breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at the shadow of him in the dark. "So pretty," he growls, fabric rustling as he hastily cuffs the sleeve of his jacket and pushes it up to his elbow to keep it safe from what he has planned.
Handfuls of velvet are bunched around your waist so you can spread your legs more freely, and Ice can slot his hand between them.
Threading your fingers through his hair, you return his lips to yours. You both groan from the kiss—you from the relief of his hands on you, the promise of a sweet release; him from how wet and needy you are (Slider's work, really, but Ice seems keen to reap the benefits).
When you break apart to gasp for air, Ice husks, "I'd get my mouth on you." And it conjures the image of Slider's wicked brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs, your cunt throbs. God, you want that. "Too bad I can't smell like pussy while I'm talking to the brass." But he allows himself the indulgence of a single taste, bringing fingers slick with your arousal to his lips.
You shake your head, unsure if his eyes have adjusted enough to see you. "Unprofessional," you agree, dizzy as his fingers plunge back into your heat. The heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your clit, his fingers working with the frantic cant of your hips as you chase a high that's walking the line of pain in its evasion of you. A steady, unignorable ache.
Ice drags his nails over the dense fabric covering your tits, your nipples pebbling at the faux cool sensation. "Tell me what you need," he whispers against your lips.
Relief is so close the air is thick with it. It tastes like Lysol. You stutter out a breath, and it morphs into a quiet whine. "Just like that," you mewl. "Keep touching me like that."
"Yeah?" Ice teases, a third finger sneaking into you and zeroing in on your sweet spot, thumb coming up to rub circles into your clit. What little light there is in the closet glints off the sharp point of his teeth as his lips part. "You're going to cum on my fingers," he declares, and your heart skips a beat when it jumps into your throat. "Then, you're going to go back to being my good, pretty girlfriend while I talk business," he presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips, and you can't contain a needy, lilting whine, "and no one will know you needed to cum on my fingers just to make it through the night."
"Oh god," you sob, nails digging into the starched fabric of Ice's jacket. You're right there. Liquid flames lick at your core, your tummy tied in knots and thighs jumpy as Ice speeds up his fingers, a muffled squelch each time his fingers bottom out, knuckles pressed tight to your cunt.
The two of you are so distracted that you don't hear the frantic footsteps until they're almost on top of you.
Ice jerks his fingers from you, yanking your dress back into place at the same time as he steps between you and the door to the closet, blocking you from whoever's about to fling the door open.
But it doesn't stop your eyes from meeting your brother's over his shoulder.
Pete slams the door shut.
Silence. Then: "You still dressed?"
Posture going rigid, Ice shoots the door a barbed look. "Maverick–" Pete shushes him through the door. He must be pressed up against the wood. Ice gives in but doesn't give up, continuing with a more hushed, "–what the hell?"
A pause. "That's not a no," your brother mulls. "Scoot over. I'm coming in."
"No!" You and Ice hiss simultaneously, but Pete is already squeezing himself into the closet with the two of you, pressed tight against Ice's back as he shuts the door firmly but with as much care as he gives his Kawasaki.
"Look," Pete whispers, and maybe his hands would be up in a placating manner if there were enough room, "I either hide in here with you two or hack it out there with Admiral Benjamin."
Without the distraction of each other, you and Ice hear far more measured footsteps hesitate at the far end of the hall before heading in your direction.
"I like your chances," Ice bites. "Leave."
Pete jostles all three of you as he turns to get into Ice's face as much as he can, given the confines of the closet. A shelf creaks, but nothing falls. "Well, it won't look good on you either," he whispers furiously. "Huh? Ice-cold, no mistakes, making out with your date in a closet like you're at junior pr–" Ice slaps a hand over his mouth, and the three of you fall deathly still.
The tension thickens until the footsteps pass you by.
No one dares to let out a quiet, adrenaline-shaken breath, even when the footsteps sound like they must have reached the other end of the hallway. Pete does, however, allow his shoulders to sag in relief.
Then, the footsteps pause.
They grow closer—louder—once more. This time, the muffled chaf of dress shoes on the carpet sounds like it's purposefully approaching the closet. Each step ratchets the tension up exponentially. You hold still, certain that if you shift your weight, something on the open shelving will give away your location. Ice, still shielding you from the door, brings a hand up to pet the back of your neck; the cool metal of his Academy ring—grounding any other time—sends a nervous trickle down your spine.
Benjamin is obviously after Pete, but how bad will it look that the two of you are in the closet with him?
There's a mechanical squeal of metal catching, handle turning, getting stuck. Jiggle. A grunt as he encounters the locking mechanism of the next door over.
Two shadows block the ambient light at the bottom of the door.
Well, you pinch your eyes closed. This will be embarrassing.
"Admiral Benjamin," someone calls from further away.
"Ah," the response comes uncomfortably close to your door. "Lieutenant…?"
"Kerner, sir." Slider. "I was with Lieutenant Kazansky earlier. Did you ever find Mitchell?
Two quick raps on the door. Pete flinches. "I believe I have." And Admiral Benjamin sounds smug.
The statement hangs in the air.
"In a closet, sir?" You can see the skeptical raise of Slider's brow in your mind's eye.
The shadow shifts. "I'm sure he came this way."
"Well, I just saw his RIO headed toward the taxis." A pause. "He's a slippery little shit. If he was here, he's long gone by now."
"Hm." Admiral Benjamin doesn't move, but from the sound of things, neither does Slider. "Well, Lieutenant. Really good stuff on the Enterprise."
Slider thanks him as the shadows disappear from the doorway and footsteps hurry off on a Goose chase.
When you're sure the admiral has left the vicinity—thankfully not asking Slider why he decided to stick around—Pete stumbles out of the closet with all the grace of a baby giraffe but none of the height. "Aw, Kerner," he teases with a dopey grin, "you do like me."
Slider snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The Geese are waiting for a taxi."
Pete's chin falls to his chest, and he mumbles a "goddammit" before hurrying to see if he can avoid Admiral Benjamin by sneaking through the courtyard.
"They're not the only ones," Slider tells Ice, nodding in the general direction of what remains of the Ball's attendees. "If you want to talk to anyone else, now's the time."
But as you practically tremble between them, Ice looks at you—really looks at you—and his features soften. He cups your shoulder, offering but not pulling you into his side. "I think I've networked enough for one night," he declares, tone light. His thumb rubbing back and forth, soothing.
Then those gray-blue eyes are on you, and his lips stretch into a slow, soft smile. "No one I can't talk with some other time."
"You sure?" Slider asks. Then, hushed, "I can take care of her while you finish up."
There is quite literally nothing you want less. The venue is clearly cursed, and you don't plan on sticking around long enough to find out what other ways you can get caught or edged tonight.
"The bet's off," Ice states before you can say 'no,' and your heart flutters. If Ice wasn't going to stick around for one last round of shoulder-rubbing, then winning was only a matter of getting you in a taxi.
For his part, Slider doesn't seem as shocked as you are by Ice's declaration.
Ice feathers a kiss to your temple before you can second-guess his decision. It's the most relaxed you've seen him all evening. "Let's get you a taxi."
"Wait." Slider pushes off the wall. He procures a key from his pocket and presses it into Ice's hand. "Holiday Inn. K Street. Leave in 10 minutes."
Ice fiddles with the thick plastic of the keychain but pays it no real mind.
"Don't give me that look," Slider boos.
Ice licks his lips. "You know our rooms were comped, right?" It's a perk of being summoned to the event, you're sure.
Slider takes a half step forward, the three of you the closest you've been all night. From this distance, Ice has to look up ever so slightly to meet Slider's cocky gaze. "You want to what?" he asks, voice going deep and quiet enough no one else could hear if they happened by you. "Pile into a single room at the same hotel everyone else is staying at?" He motions between the three of you. "How's that going to work?"
Some like to write Slider off as all muscle, no brain. But it's his job to see things others don't—things Ice doesn't. He knew they couldn't take you back to their fancy hotel rooms even before he came to the event tonight. The safest solution had been to shell out for a lesser room somewhere you were less likely to turn heads.
"She isn't exactly known for being quiet," Sli stresses.
Ice ponders the key for long seconds before he pockets it with a nod.
Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron "Slider" Kerner
Summary: Interrupting Iceman.
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering
Chapter: 3/4
Minors DNI
Previous Chapter
Slider's head whips around, shoulders drawn tight toward his ears as the crash of the door startles you both.
"Kerner!"
The split-second of terror subsides with that voice.
Ice.
Slider grunts, stubbornly diving back between your thighs. A man on a mission.
"I know you're up here, and I'm giving you to the count of three."
"No," you whimper, hips rocking against Slider's fingers, urging them to work faster. "Don't stop."
"One."
Instead of responding, Slider's breath ghosts over your clit as he presses two fingers into your cunt, curling them to pinpoint your sweet spot and hurtle you toward the edge.
The click of Ice's shoes is loud as he stalks toward you. "Two."
"So good," Slider hums against your slick skin. You squeeze your eyes closed, keening at the praise. "Almost there, baby."
Sli hisses as fingers fist in his short hair and yank him from between your legs.
"Three."
You whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation and the pour of cool night air over heated skin.
Slider has the audacity to flash Ice a smug smile. "Oh," he says as if he hadn't known the two of you were no longer alone. "Hey, Ice."
Pale eyes narrow as if asking Slider if that's the game they're going to play, then Ice pulls a tissue from his pocket and holds it to his RIO. "You've got lipstick on your face."
Slider's tongue peeks out to lick his lips. "That's not the only thing on my face."
Ice doesn't dignify him with a response, only releasing Slider when he stands and steps back to give you enough space for Ice to resettle you—steadying you on your own two feet and smoothing wrinkled velvet before procuring another tissue to help clean up the rouge smudged beyond the bounds of your lips.
Once you're deemed presentable, Ice descends the steps with his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with an insistent tug that makes you feel more like an insolent child than his date. You want to stamp your feet as Ice assures you that he only needs to talk to a couple more officers he wants to speak with before you can get out of there.
Between the forced separation through staggered travel to D.C. and the night's two encounters—both of which had taken you to the very edge before leaving you high and dry—you're at your limit. So, to say you aren't paying attention to the conversation is an understatement. How are you supposed to pay attention to anything when you're oscillating between the jitters of unsated arousal and lightly filtered frustration?
Because who the hell does he think he is—do they think they are—to draw you into their little macho pissing contest? It's a wonder Iceman and Slider can both fit into the cockpit with their egos so blown out of proportion.
What should it matter in the end? They know you're going home with both of them.
Not that you get to say any of this. Instead, you're left to stew with empty eyes, a pinched smile, and a clenched fist at Ice's side as he makes a good impression on a commander. You're scraping the barrel with each half-hearted laugh at the officer's dull jokes, the Brut in your glass swirling between your fingers untouched. Each shift of your legs brings you closer to angry tears as the spit between them turns tacky, the microabrasions from Slider's stubble smarts reminding you of your lack of undergarment and the dissatisfied, borderline painful feeling of emptiness.
But it'll be a cold day in hell before you let any tears fall. You have your own pride to manage, and besides, no one wants to mingle with the serviceman whose date's eyes burn a tear-stung red.
"How much longer?" you ask Ice once the commander leaves.
Ice gives you an assessing look, eyebrows pulled down, and his head lightly tilted. You can't tell if he feels bad about what he's putting you through or is confused by your shortness of tone. "Impatient?"
You scoff, barely repressing the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you take a sip of your Brut, nose wrinkling as it bursts bitter across your tongue. "Whatever," you huff, done with the conversation and resigning yourself to more of the same. Ice had said there were "a couple" officers he wanted to talk with, after all.
Ice draws a deep breath in through his nose; lips pursed as he looks up to the ceiling. You know he's looking for the right words. You're still determining what those words would be. You know for a fact he won't find them painted on the ceiling.
Lucky for you—because you're not done being upset with him yet—Ice can't pinpoint what he's looking for before you're interrupted.
"Woah!" a familiar blonde excuses, bumbling into Ice and nearly spilling his beer on matching whites. "Sorry about that, still got my sea le– oh! Ice, hey!" Excuse dropped as a beamish grin overtakes Wolfman's face, cheeks tinged pink with drink.
"Wolf," you giggle as Wolf pulls you into a better mood with a friendly hug. It's hard to be all doom and gloom when Wolf's involved; he's a veritable ray of sunshine. "Where's 'Wood?"
"Pfft," he snorts. "Where's anyone? I mean, 'Wood's somewhere with his girl, but one minute I'm with Sli and Chip, the next Sli's gone and Chip's found himself a pretty little thing to dance with." He shrugs, not looking too plussed about his situation.
"I'll dance with you, Wolfie," you jump to offer. "Ice is being boring anyway."
Ice frowns. Wolf laughs. "Who am I to say no to a lady?" he asks, pulling you into an off-kilter twirl. "Don't worry, Ice, she's in good hands!" he calls over his shoulder as you practically drag him toward the dancefloor.
What Wolfman lacks in prowess, he makes up for in enthusiasm. By the time Hollywood and his fiancée find the two of you on the dancefloor—not a surprise since 'Wood and Wolf are practically connected at the hip—you're a little breathless from trying to keep up.
It's a good time, but you can only be so distracted, and it's only a matter of time before you begin scanning the crowd. Either you'll find Slider, or he'll find you, but you'll be damned if he doesn't finish what he started.
You know Ice has people he wants to impress and a ladder he's trying to climb, but shouldn't you be at the top of his list? With this thought at the helm, it isn't long before you spot a head of brown curls that towers above the rest. You rock onto your tiptoes to feed Wolf a lie—bathroom—and push through the crowd alone.
Except as you get closer, it becomes glaringly apparent that this tall brunet is not Slider.
You scowl at no one in particular when you come up empty-handed.
As you decide to keep searching until you find Slider—and, ultimately, relief—someone grabs you from behind.
You whirl around, ready to smack the person's hands off of you.
It's Pete.
You smack him anyway.
"Ow!" Pete yelps, more from surprise than pain. You didn't hit him that hard. "What the hell?!"
"Pete Mitchell, who do you think you are grabbing a lady–"
"You're hardly a lady."
"–from behind like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Pete disarms you with a light pinch to your side that has you clamping your arms against your sides to protect against further tickling. "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Didn't think I'd catch you without one or the other."
You suppress a roll of your eyes. "Who knows."
"Sooo," Pete drawls a bit awkwardly, "does this have anything to do with the weirdness going on between the three of you?"
"Oh my god. You know," you groan, unable to stop yourself from hiding your face in your hands. How embarrassing.
"I don't know-know," Pete's quick to correct, "and I don't want to. But I know something's up."
This isn't something you're delving into with your brother. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Doesn't seem like nothing if you're avoiding them."
"Like you're avoiding Penny's dad?" you snark back. Deflecting. "I'm surprised you decided to stick around."
"He's old. It's probably past his bedtime," Pete says confidently, a smile tugging at his lips. "The night's mine."
"Whatever will you do with this newfound freedom?" you tease.
Pete gives a half-shrug, surveying the room. "I'm sure some poor officer brought his daughter so she could meet the love of her life."
You don't bother holding in a mocking laugh. "And that's you?"
"No." Pete makes a face. "But I can be her something for the night."
"Ew," you grunt because you so do not want to get into that with your brother. "I need a drink."
A hand catches your elbow as you turn. "Going somewhere?"
You refuse to look as you shake Ice's hand off and continue walking.
"So you're going to ignore me." It's a statement.
"Don't you have other people to talk to?"
Ice reaches for your elbow again, turning you so he can meet your eyes with his own. "I want to talk to you."
"That's my cue," Pete mumbles as he slinks into the crowd, presumably to find trouble.
Neither you nor Ice move, and your stomach roils as his jaw sets, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're mad at me."
Part of you wants to tell him off. Instead, you shake your head. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," Ice says, with a curt nod, his shoulders—which had been bunched—rolling back as he becomes more sure of himself. "I can work with that."
Something about the way he says it rankles you, and you sneer. Earlier, you'd been all aboard hanging off Ice's arm, but now you're wound tight enough to burst, and all you want to do is take a hot bath. And now that he's made you this way, you're something that needs to be dealt with.
"Let's grab some fresh air," Ice says, loud enough to settle any eavesdroppers as he leads you toward the outdoor courtyard with a gentle but commanding grasp on your elbow.
But you pass by the turn for the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me?" The smell of cigar smoke thins as you walk along less-traveled hallways.
"I'm taking care of it," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and continues to drag you after him.
Venturing further from the intended party spaces, the lights dim. You doubt the venue means for you to be down here.
Instead of voicing these thoughts, you scoff. "Helpful."
Making sure you're alone, Ice pulls you down a deserted hallway. "You're frustrated. I have people to talk to," he says slowly, sparing you a glance.
You frown. There goes Ice, talking about other people. Again.
He beelines for two unassuming doors, reaching out to the first, but its handle jiggles. Catches. Locked.
"I'm taking care of it."
Before you can challenge that assertion, Ice steps to the side and grabs the handle to the second door, marked STAFF ONLY.
It clicks.
Ice pushes you inside, following close behind.
The light coming through the foot of the door isn't enough to tell you where you are. But the clinical, electric-orange antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies invading your nose, singeing the hairs, is more than enough to give it away.
When you cross your arms over your chest, something falls to the ground with a wooden clack! "By dragging me into a janitor's closet?"
"Well, you said you'd be good for me, but that didn't last long."
You reach for where the handle must be, but Ice anticipates your moodiness and moves to intercept, deflecting your hand. "But the bet was that Slider couldn't get you off." His breath fans your face as he leans in, so you tilt your head away to avoid his lips. Stubborn. Undeterred, he kisses the long line of your neck, and the ghost of soft lips has you holding back a gasp. "So I'm taking care of it."
"What if it doesn't want to be taken care of?"
Sharp teeth are a shock beneath the hinge of your jaw. "Don't be a brat."
A strangled moan trips past your lips as he catches you off guard.
You don't have to see Ice to know he's smirking. "Noted." Then his hand is cupping your breast. "So, are you going to let me take care of you or not?"
You're not proud of how quickly you crumble, but it's like a switch flips. You hope Ice is okay with the whiplash because after an entire night of teasing, you're desperate for relief. "Please," you whimper, pushing yourself further into his orbit. You want so bad it hurts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got you." Ice captures your lips in a heated kiss—nipping at your bottom lip so you hiss and open up for him. He knows what you need, and he's (apparently) going to give it to you.
Your fingers, clumsy in their haste, scramble for Ice's belt, but he brushes them aside. "This is about you. I'll get mine later," he says, tilting your head to the side so he can track wet kisses up to the spot just below your ear, electricity sparking down your spine as teeth tug at the lobe. "When I lay you out on my bed."
A high-pitched, excited moan is your answer, interrupted by Ice's fingers over your lips. "You've gotta be quiet," he purrs, voice low in your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear us."
"Then kiss me." He does. And as you breathe in deep, the whole situation makes you feel like you're back in high school: shelving digging into your lower back like you're sneaking around, trading uncoordinated kisses in the janitor's closet with David Hodges until your brother finds you and rips poor David away for an ass-beating. But infinitely better.
Ice's lips are familiar. Urgent and addictive against your own as he swallows your whimper—nothing like David.
Ice pinches your fat bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a slick smack. You suck in a sharp breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at the shadow of him in the dark. "So pretty," he growls, fabric rustling as he hastily cuffs the sleeve of his jacket and pushes it up to his elbow to keep it safe from what he has planned.
Handfuls of velvet are bunched around your waist so you can spread your legs more freely, and Ice can slot his hand between them.
Threading your fingers through his hair, you return his lips to yours. You both groan from the kiss—you from the relief of his hands on you, the promise of a sweet release; him from how wet and needy you are (Slider's work, really, but Ice seems keen to reap the benefits).
When you break apart to gasp for air, Ice husks, "I'd get my mouth on you." And it conjures the image of Slider's wicked brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs, your cunt throbs. God, you want that. "Too bad I can't smell like pussy while I'm talking to the brass." But he allows himself the indulgence of a single taste, bringing fingers slick with your arousal to his lips.
You shake your head, unsure if his eyes have adjusted enough to see you. "Unprofessional," you agree, dizzy as his fingers plunge back into your heat. The heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your clit, his fingers working with the frantic cant of your hips as you chase a high that's walking the line of pain in its evasion of you. A steady, unignorable ache.
Ice drags his nails over the dense fabric covering your tits, your nipples pebbling at the faux cool sensation. "Tell me what you need," he whispers against your lips.
Relief is so close the air is thick with it. It tastes like Lysol. You stutter out a breath, and it morphs into a quiet whine. "Just like that," you mewl. "Keep touching me like that."
"Yeah?" Ice teases, a third finger sneaking into you and zeroing in on your sweet spot, thumb coming up to rub circles into your clit. What little light there is in the closet glints off the sharp point of his teeth as his lips part. "You're going to cum on my fingers," he declares, and your heart skips a beat when it jumps into your throat. "Then, you're going to go back to being my good, pretty girlfriend while I talk business," he presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips, and you can't contain a needy, lilting whine, "and no one will know you needed to cum on my fingers just to make it through the night."
"Oh god," you sob, nails digging into the starched fabric of Ice's jacket. You're right there. Liquid flames lick at your core, your tummy tied in knots and thighs jumpy as Ice speeds up his fingers, a muffled squelch each time his fingers bottom out, knuckles pressed tight to your cunt.
The two of you are so distracted that you don't hear the frantic footsteps until they're almost on top of you.
Ice jerks his fingers from you, yanking your dress back into place at the same time as he steps between you and the door to the closet, blocking you from whoever's about to fling the door open.
But it doesn't stop your eyes from meeting your brother's over his shoulder.
Pete slams the door shut.
Silence. Then: "You still dressed?"
Posture going rigid, Ice shoots the door a barbed look. "Maverick–" Pete shushes him through the door. He must be pressed up against the wood. Ice gives in but doesn't give up, continuing with a more hushed, "–what the hell?"
A pause. "That's not a no," your brother mulls. "Scoot over. I'm coming in."
"No!" You and Ice hiss simultaneously, but Pete is already squeezing himself into the closet with the two of you, pressed tight against Ice's back as he shuts the door firmly but with as much care as he gives his Kawasaki.
"Look," Pete whispers, and maybe his hands would be up in a placating manner if there were enough room, "I either hide in here with you two or hack it out there with Admiral Benjamin."
Without the distraction of each other, you and Ice hear far more measured footsteps hesitate at the far end of the hall before heading in your direction.
"I like your chances," Ice bites. "Leave."
Pete jostles all three of you as he turns to get into Ice's face as much as he can, given the confines of the closet. A shelf creaks, but nothing falls. "Well, it won't look good on you either," he whispers furiously. "Huh? Ice-cold, no mistakes, making out with your date in a closet like you're at junior pr–" Ice slaps a hand over his mouth, and the three of you fall deathly still.
The tension thickens until the footsteps pass you by.
No one dares to let out a quiet, adrenaline-shaken breath, even when the footsteps sound like they must have reached the other end of the hallway. Pete does, however, allow his shoulders to sag in relief.
Then, the footsteps pause.
They grow closer—louder—once more. This time, the muffled chaf of dress shoes on the carpet sounds like it's purposefully approaching the closet. Each step ratchets the tension up exponentially. You hold still, certain that if you shift your weight, something on the open shelving will give away your location. Ice, still shielding you from the door, brings a hand up to pet the back of your neck; the cool metal of his Academy ring—grounding any other time—sends a nervous trickle down your spine.
Benjamin is obviously after Pete, but how bad will it look that the two of you are in the closet with him?
There's a mechanical squeal of metal catching, handle turning, getting stuck. Jiggle. A grunt as he encounters the locking mechanism of the next door over.
Two shadows block the ambient light at the bottom of the door.
Well, you pinch your eyes closed. This will be embarrassing.
"Admiral Benjamin," someone calls from further away.
"Ah," the response comes uncomfortably close to your door. "Lieutenant…?"
"Kerner, sir." Slider. "I was with Lieutenant Kazansky earlier. Did you ever find Mitchell?
Two quick raps on the door. Pete flinches. "I believe I have." And Admiral Benjamin sounds smug.
The statement hangs in the air.
"In a closet, sir?" You can see the skeptical raise of Slider's brow in your mind's eye.
The shadow shifts. "I'm sure he came this way."
"Well, I just saw his RIO headed toward the taxis." A pause. "He's a slippery little shit. If he was here, he's long gone by now."
"Hm." Admiral Benjamin doesn't move, but from the sound of things, neither does Slider. "Well, Lieutenant. Really good stuff on the Enterprise."
Slider thanks him as the shadows disappear from the doorway and footsteps hurry off on a Goose chase.
When you're sure the admiral has left the vicinity—thankfully not asking Slider why he decided to stick around—Pete stumbles out of the closet with all the grace of a baby giraffe but none of the height. "Aw, Kerner," he teases with a dopey grin, "you do like me."
Slider snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The Geese are waiting for a taxi."
Pete's chin falls to his chest, and he mumbles a "goddammit" before hurrying to see if he can avoid Admiral Benjamin by sneaking through the courtyard.
"They're not the only ones," Slider tells Ice, nodding in the general direction of what remains of the Ball's attendees. "If you want to talk to anyone else, now's the time."
But as you practically tremble between them, Ice looks at you—really looks at you—and his features soften. He cups your shoulder, offering but not pulling you into his side. "I think I've networked enough for one night," he declares, tone light. His thumb rubbing back and forth, soothing.
Then those gray-blue eyes are on you, and his lips stretch into a slow, soft smile. "No one I can't talk with some other time."
"You sure?" Slider asks. Then, hushed, "I can take care of her while you finish up."
There is quite literally nothing you want less. The venue is clearly cursed, and you don't plan on sticking around long enough to find out what other ways you can get caught or edged tonight.
"The bet's off," Ice states before you can say 'no,' and your heart flutters. If Ice wasn't going to stick around for one last round of shoulder-rubbing, then winning was only a matter of getting you in a taxi.
For his part, Slider doesn't seem as shocked as you are by Ice's declaration.
Ice feathers a kiss to your temple before you can second-guess his decision. It's the most relaxed you've seen him all evening. "Let's get you a taxi."
"Wait." Slider pushes off the wall. He procures a key from his pocket and presses it into Ice's hand. "Holiday Inn. K Street. Leave in 10 minutes."
Ice fiddles with the thick plastic of the keychain but pays it no real mind.
"Don't give me that look," Slider boos.
Ice licks his lips. "You know our rooms were comped, right?" It's a perk of being summoned to the event, you're sure.
Slider takes a half step forward, the three of you the closest you've been all night. From this distance, Ice has to look up ever so slightly to meet Slider's cocky gaze. "You want to what?" he asks, voice going deep and quiet enough no one else could hear if they happened by you. "Pile into a single room at the same hotel everyone else is staying at?" He motions between the three of you. "How's that going to work?"
Some like to write Slider off as all muscle, no brain. But it's his job to see things others don't—things Ice doesn't. He knew they couldn't take you back to their fancy hotel rooms even before he came to the event tonight. The safest solution had been to shell out for a lesser room somewhere you were less likely to turn heads.
"She isn't exactly known for being quiet," Sli stresses.
Ice ponders the key for long seconds before he pockets it with a nod.
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