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@royalinkblot
I’m finally working on my next story, and I’m so excited! It’s finally coming together and flowing again after a massive writer’s block. I really hope it turns out great and that people can resonate with it. I’ll admit that writing at this particular moment in my life hasn’t been easy, but it’s absolutely worth it. So excited for this one!
Okay so I need opinions because my brain refuses to pick a lane 😭 I want to write a new IceMav AU, but I’m torn between two options:
Ice is famous (actor? writer? musician?) and Mav is military
Mav is NOT military and is the famous one and Ice is military
Neither is military
Both have so much potential 😭😭😭😭 and very different dynamics and I genuinely can’t decide which one to dive into first
so… which would you rather read 👀 and more importantly, WHY? I’m curious what kind of tropes or vibes you’d want from either version! Also: modern setting or 80s vibes?
Shot through the heart (and you're to blame)
Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth? (Heaven is a place on Earth)
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell is an omega. Tom "Iceman" Kazansky is an alpha-Need I say more? There's secret admirers, too much alcohol, lots of pining and a very observant three year old.
The bet is fifty bucks.
The bet was born sticky-floored and loud, right around the second pitcher of cheap beer at the O-Club.
Slider slapped a fifty down on the table like he was daring the universe to argue with him. “I’m tellin’ you, hon,” he said, vowels sharp and fast, New York edges softened only by time and bad decisions. “Those two are either gonna throw punches or clothes. Week one. Easy.”
Across from him, Goose squinted, polite brow furrowed like he was considering scripture. He honked out a laugh—HNK-HNK—and shook his head. “Now see, I don’t know about that. That ain’t a punch-or-pants situation. That’s a slow burn. Graduation minimum.”
Slider snorted. “You kiddin’ me? Did you see how they were lookin’ at each other?”
Goose followed Slider’s gaze to the piano, where Maverick, jacket slung over one shoulder, Kawasaki keys spinning loose and cocky around his finger, was absolutely not flirting with the blond guy in aviators leaning against the edge of the stage.
Maverick sang like he meant it, grin crooked, voice teasing. The blond didn’t smile much, but when he did, it was like he already knew how this ended.
“Courtship,” Goose said calmly. “The kind where both parties pretend they ain’t interested.”
Slider slid his fifty across the table. “They ain’t makin’ it a week.”
Goose matched it, neat and precise. “Winner cleans the loser’s locker room. Uniforms too. Month.”
Slider’s grin went feral. “Deal.”
They shook on it. Fate, drunk and amused, took notes.
+
Maverick didn’t mean to pick a fight.
He just had that kind of face.
By the time he made it to the bar, the blond was already there, cool voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
“You lost, hotshot?”
Maverick turned slowly, grin already locked and loaded. “Funny. I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
Slider leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “There it is.”
Goose clutched his beer like it might intervene. “Lord help us.”
The banter snapped and sparked, sharp enough to draw blood if either of them slipped. Iceman (because of course his call sign was Iceman) didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t have to. Maverick talked enough for both of them, all instinct and swagger, Philly defiance worn like armor.
They stood too close. Stayed too long.
Nobody won that exchange, but nobody walked away untouched.
+
TOPGUN sharpened everything.
Briefings became battlegrounds. Dogfights became intimate. Iceman flew like control was a religion; Maverick flew like rules were a suggestion. They argued constantly, but their eyes followed each other everywhere.
Maverick leaned against Iceman’s sleek, expensive car like he owned it, jacket tucked under his arm.
“You scratch it, you buy it,” Iceman said coolly.
Maverick looked him over, slow and deliberate. “Pretty sure I can’t afford you.”
Slider nearly inhaled his coffee. Goose laughed so hard he honked and had to bend over.
At night, they ended up in the same places without meaning to. Hands brushed. Shoulders bumped. Arguments ended close enough to count freckles.
Slider watched with the growing anxiety of a man whose laundry fate was approaching fast.
By day three, he snapped.
“This is stallin’,” he declared, pacing the barracks. “He don’t stall. He calculates. This is deliberate.”
Goose, polishing his helmet with reverence, didn’t look up. “You’re just upset calculatin’ ain’t workin’ in your favor.”
“I am upset because I ain’t washin’ your clothes.”
“You can’t make ‘em kiss,” Goose added mildly.
“I ain’t makin’ ‘em kiss,” Slider shot back. “I’m nudgin’ time.”
+
Slider cornered Iceman outside the hangar, leaning against his Jeep like it was a throne.
“So,” he said casually, “Philly’s boy likes bikes. Likes ‘em loud.”
Iceman stared at him. “You’re meddling.”
“I’m investin’.”
A pause. A sigh.
“You’re impossible,” Iceman muttered.
“And yet,” Slider said, grinning, “you’re listenin’.”
+
Goose took a gentler route.
He “accidentally” double-booked study slots. Forgot to show up.
“Oh hell,” Maverick said when he realized it was just the two of them. “It’s just you.”
Iceman smiled thinly. “Disappointed?”
“Distracted,” Maverick shot back, but he didn’t move away.
From the hall, Goose whispered, “This feels wrong.”
Slider whispered back, “This feels necessary.”
+
The tension turned feral.
They snapped at each other in briefings like foreplay was an Olympic event.
“You’re dangerous.”
“You’re rigid.”
“You’d get yourself killed.”
“You’d never live.”
Slider fanned himself. Goose clutched his chest. “I have seen rom-coms with less tension.”
+
The volleyball game was the tipping point, by night, they lit up a bonfire.
Beer, firelight, music too loud. Someone dared Maverick to race down the beach.
“I’ll go,” Maverick said instantly.
“Of course you will,” Iceman replied.
“You comin’ or just judging?”
“I don’t run blindly into things.”
Maverick stepped closer. “Liar.”
They stood there, heat and breath and something terrifyingly soft under all that bravado.
“You ever think about not running?” Iceman asked quietly.
Maverick swallowed. “Only when you’re askin’.”
Slider slammed his beer down. “THIS IS IT.”
They didn’t kiss.
But they didn’t step back like they used to, either.
+
Week one ended without punches or promises.
Slider stared at the calendar like it had personally betrayed him.
“I was robbed,” he announced, shoving uniforms into a laundry bag. “Absolutely robbed.”
Goose clapped his shoulder. “Love don’t like deadlines.”
Slider sighed, then glanced across the lot where Maverick and Iceman stood too close, laughing quietly.
“They’re gone,” he admitted. “Done for.”
Goose smiled. “Yeah.”
Graduation came sunburned and proud.
The kiss came later, quick, stolen behind the hanger doors, laughter muffled against mouths, real and undeniable. Iceman holding Maverick against him and Maverick's arms around the blonde's shoulders.
Slider washed uniforms for a month, cursing every sock.
Goose never touched a single one.
And Maverick and Iceman walked out together. leather brushing tailored sleeves. ready for whatever came next.
Goose smiled at his friends. Some bets were worth losing.
Slider shrunk Goose's underwear on purpose.
Maverick and Iceman became wingmen, in more way than one. And everyone saw it coming—except the idiots in love.
Wanna go to sleep BUT
😂✨️
Open arms.
The first day of Top Gun begins like any other: the best of the best—swagger and sweat in human form—squeezed into a room with too much testosterone and not nearly enough humility.
Maverick sits in the front row, twirling his pen, pretending he’s not vibrating with the kind of energy that makes commanders sigh and therapists rich. Goose lounges beside him, grinning like a cat that got the cream.
Then he walks in.
Lt. Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. Blond. Perfect. Sharp enough to slice through steel with one look. His flight suit fits too well, his smirk is borderline criminal, and when he takes his seat at mid-left, he looks straight ahead—then winks at Maverick.
It’s not a blink.
It’s intentional.
Slow. Confident.
A calculated missile strike.
Maverick’s ears flush pink. Goose nearly falls out of his chair trying not to laugh.
“Jesus, Mav,” Goose whispers, “you just got winked at by the Iceman.”
Maverick mutters, “Yeah, well, I’m not interested.”
(He absolutely is.)
.
That night, the O Club buzzes with laughter, booze, and bravado. Pilots drink, dance, and boast. Charlie’s in the corner—sharp, stunning, clearly interested in one Lt. Pete Mitchell.
But Maverick’s eyes aren’t on her.
They’re on Iceman—leaning against the bar, white summer shirt stretched across muscle, platinum dog tags catching the light. Slider’s beside him, chatting up some ensign, but Ice’s gaze keeps drifting back to Maverick.
Then the music shifts.
Goose smirks. “You gonna do it?”
He sees that wild spark ignite in Maverick’s eyes and thinks, Oh boy.
“I’m absolutely gonna do it,” Maverick says.
He strides to the microphone, determination in every step. The first few piano notes of Journey’s “Open Arms” hum through the bar. The crowd quiets.
Maverick sings softly, eyes locked on Iceman: “So now I come to you… with open arms…”
Goose shakes his head in disbelief. “Subtle, Mav. Really subtle.” But being the loyal co-pilot he is, he orders another round and braces for impact.
Maverick keeps going, voice low and velvety: “Nothing to hide, believe what I say…”
His gaze never wavers. Green eyes, open and raw, holding no disguise.
Iceman freezes mid-sip. Slider’s jaw drops. What in homoerotic hell is he witnessing? And why does Ice look enchanted?
Then—Ice smiles. That slow, knowing, devastating smile that says, Yeah. I know that’s for me.
Charlie, bless her heart, claps enthusiastically, convinced the performance was for her. Maverick gives her a polite grin, but when he glances back—
Iceman mouths, Beautiful voice, flyboy.
Maverick blushes. Goose nearly chokes on his beer.
(And that, right there, should’ve been the first clue that Ice was as gone for Maverick Mitchell as Maverick was for him. Because Maverick can’t sing for shit.)
(Either Iceman’s a liar—or he’s tone-deaf.)
(Goose thinks it’s love. It has to be.)
.
The next few weeks are chaos.
Between lectures, hops, and near-midair collisions, Maverick and Iceman are locked in a duel that’s half dogfight, half courtship.
They trade barbs like love letters:
“Your ego’s writing checks your body can’t cash.”
“Yeah? Then maybe you should come collect, Ice.”
Goose, Slider, and the rest of the class can only watch helplessly as every debrief turns into a flirt war. Hollywood starts a betting pool. Wolfman keeps score. Sundown just wants to graduate in peace.
During one hop, Iceman gets on Maverick’s tail.
“You can run, Mitchell, but you can’t hide.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ice. I like when you chase.”
Goose groans, “Oh my GOD, I’m gonna eject myself.”
(Slider’s right there with him, because—damn.)
Then Wolfman suggests a volleyball match—something about “bonding.” But as the game progresses, it becomes painfully clear that two of the players have... other motives.
What starts as friendly competition becomes The Thirst Game.
It’s ninety-five degrees. Sun. Sweat. Dog tags. Abs.
Maverick serves. Iceman’s shirtless. Every move is an Olympic event in repressed desire.
Goose leans toward Slider. “They’re not playing volleyball—they’re flirting with athletic props.”
“Man,” Slider mutters, “if they make eye contact one more time, I’m calling HR.”
Maverick spikes the ball, wins the point, flashes that wicked grin. Iceman jogs over, chest gleaming, smirk lethal.
“Nice form,” he says.
Maverick shrugs. “You should see my other positions.”
His gaze burns. Iceman swallows hard, fists clenching, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.
Goose yells, “I DID NOT HEAR THAT!”
.
Then comes Hop 31. The flat spin. The panic. The canopy. The ocean.
Fear grips his chest. The plane spirals out of control. Maverick’s heartbeat screams don’t let go, don’t lose him.
They eject—impact, water, chaos.
Maverick surfaces, gasping, hauls Goose into the raft. Goose coughs, grimacing, but alive.
“You owe me one hell of a steak dinner, Mav,” he croaks.
(Maverick would buy him every steak in the world if it meant he was safe.)
Back at base, Iceman finds Maverick in the locker room. No words. Just a look—soft, worried, real.
“He’s fine,” Maverick says quietly. “I’m fine.”
Iceman steps closer, hand brushing his shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Yeah,” Maverick murmurs, “me too.”
For once, there’s no banter. Just breath.
.
Iceman wins Top Gun. Maverick claps, smiling despite the ache in his chest.
After the ceremony, Ice finds him outside, alone by his bike.
“You did good up there,” Maverick says softly.
“So did you,” Iceman replies. “You’re still dangerous.”
“Only to you,” Maverick grins.
Weeks have passed, and Maverick finally accepts it—the fire in his veins, the urge to close the distance, the way Ice’s lips look like sin and salvation—it’s not one-sided.
A beat.
A breath.
They lean in. Noses brush. The air hums.
Then Slider yells, “ICEMAN, PHOTO!”
They jerk apart like guilty schoolboys.
“See you around?” Ice asks.
“Count on it,” Maverick says.
(And oh, did he.)
.
When the new orders arrive, they’re deployed to the USS Enterprise for the most dangerous rescue mission of their careers.
MiGs. Missiles. Chaos.
But through it all—they’ve got each other’s backs.
Iceman’s wing gets hit. Maverick dives to save him. Together, they take down enemy after enemy until the sky is theirs again.
When they land, the deck erupts in cheers.
Iceman grabs Maverick, shaking his head, voice cracking: “You can be my wingman anytime.”
His eyes are bright—raw—with something Maverick doesn’t dare name but desperately hopes is real.
Maverick grins. “Bullshit. You can be mine.”
Because I already am yours.
They hug—long, tight, too long for just brothers-in-arms.
Goose mutters to Slider, “They’re absolutely gonna make out after this.”
Slider sighs. “I’m begging the Navy to ban hugging.”
(Goose was right… ish.)
.
That night, in the quiet hum of the carrier, Maverick and Iceman finally drop the act.
Maverick drags Ice into his room—no resistance from the blond—and the moment the door clicks shut, their eyes lock. Their breaths are ragged, their gazes fierce and unwavering.
Iceman moves first. He cups Maverick’s face in his hands, lowering his head until their lips meet in a scorching kiss—one heavy with weeks of pent-up desire, the desperate need to know Maverick is really there, alive, his. The kiss is laced with lust, yes, but beneath it thrums something deeper, something neither of them dares to name.
Maverick lets out a soft moan, rising onto his toes as he loops his arms around Ice’s neck. He presses himself fully against Ice’s chest, his lips parting with a quiet, breathy groan. Iceman seizes the moment, sliding his tongue into Maverick’s mouth and savoring the unmistakable taste of Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.
There’s laughter, whispered confessions, and the soft clink of dog tags. Maverick rides Iceman with abandon, trying to hold back the sounds that the rubbing of Iceman's cock against his prostate brings out of him, Iceman grips Maverick's ass tightly, steady and sure, leaving traces of strength and want in their wake, and thrusts hard and fast, each thrust purposeful and precise. Each movement is deliberate, a wordless conversation between breath and heartbeat, power and surrender. The world narrows to the rhythm of them — wild, unguarded, and alive.
When they come, it’s with Iceman biting into Maverick’s shoulder to stifle his own growl, white-hot pleasure humming through every nerve. Maverick follows, undone by the sharp sting of Ice’s teeth — the final push that sends him over the edge. His nails rake down Iceman’s shoulders, leaving red crescents that Ice secretly wishes would never fade.
Iceman pulls Maverick—still straddling him—closer against his chest, kissing him softly. His fingers trace and tease where his shaft stretches Maverick open, sending shivers of overstimulation and pleasure through him. Maverick trembles, pressing into Ice’s touch and capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s equal parts sweet and filthy—just as Goose and Slider walk in.
“MAV—OH MY GOD!” Goose shrieks, slamming the door shut so fast the hinges protest. His face drains of color, and even his mustache seems to droop in grief. What kind of sins am I paying for?
Slider, meanwhile, has both hands slapped dramatically over his eyes, looking skyward as if pleading with the heavens for mercy. “I’M BLIND! I’M ACTUALLY BLIND!” he bellows. “I’m gonna need therapy for this—no, exorcism!”
Maverick just groans from the tangle of sheets and limbs, yanking the blanket up to cover both himself and Ice. “You could’ve knocked,” he mutters, voice muffled.
Goose shoots him a look full of pure annoyance. “This is my room too, Mav, did you forget? We share a room, for God’s sake!”
He’s already winding up for another round of righteous fury when his eyes land on the bed. His bed. The exact moment realization dawns, his expression shifts from irritation to absolute horror.
“Wait—hold on. And in my bed?!” Goose throws his hands in the air like he’s been personally victimized by the universe. “Oh, this is betrayal of the highest order! There are Geneva Conventions against this kind of thing!”
Slider, lounging against the doorframe, snorts. “Damn right,” he says, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “Goose, buddy, I feel your pain. First they take your peace and quiet, now your bed. What’s next? Your dignity?”
“I already lost that when I agreed to room with him!” Goose fires back.
Maverick just smirks from where he’s still in Iceman’s lap, unbothered naked and infuriatingly smug. “Hey, you weren’t using it.”
Slider’s eyes narrow behind his hands. “You two better not even think about having sex in my bed,” he warns, pointing dramatically, eyes closed. “Because if I find so much as a suspicious wrinkle on those sheets, I’m burning the whole mattress. I don’t care how much Navy property it is.”
Goose glares between them. “Unbelievable. My bed, of all places. I hope the guilt keeps you up at night.”
Maverick grins. “Oh, don’t worry, Goose—it will.”
Iceman smirks — because beneath that frosty composure and picture-perfect precision, there’s a mischievous little shit. “Next time,” he drawls, utterly unbothered, “lock the hatch, babe.”
Goose lets out a strangled noise. “NEXT TIME?!” he squawks, clutching his heart like he’s about to faint. “There’s gonna be a next time?!”
That’s the moment Ice begins to move again, his arousal stirring back to life—still caught in the molten heat of Maverick’s body. The motion draws a hiss of pleasure from Maverick, who rolls his hips in a slow, answering rhythm.
From nearby comes Goose’s scandalized squawk. “Jesus fucking Christ! Have you two completely forgotten what decency is?” he blurts, hands flying up to cover his eyes. “This is a shared space!”
Slider looks like a man seconds away from ejecting. “Yeah, uh… I’m out,” he mutters, already halfway to the door. “You two can—uh—debrief on your own.” He gropes his way toward the wall, still ‘blind.’ “I can’t believe my last good memory of this day is that,” he groans. “I need bleach—for my eyes and my soul.”
Goose grabs him by the elbow. “C’mon, Slider. Let’s go scrub our brains with jet fuel.”
“Copy that,” Slider mutters. “Preferably the flammable kind.”
They stumble off, muttering curses and prayers in equal measure.
Inside, the chaos softens. Maverick sighs and turns toward Ice, cheeks pink, hair a disaster.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he grumbles.
Ice wraps an arm around him, pulling him in close, eyes crinkling with quiet amusement. “Maybe,” he says, voice low. “But I’m not letting you go, you reckless idiot.”
Maverick blinks up at him, something unspoken flickering between them — all the near misses, the dives, the trust. He leans in until their foreheads touch, a soft smile ghosting across his lips.
“My wingman,” he murmurs.
Ice presses a kiss to his temple. “Always.”
From outside, Goose’s voice echoes through the corridor: “AND IF I EVER SEE SO MUCH AS A SHIRTLESS SHOULDER AGAIN, I’M CALLING COMMAND!”
Maverick snickers into Ice’s chest. “Guess we’ll need a new lock.”
Ice chuckles. “Or a soundproof door.”
Goose and Slider’s horrified wailing fades into the distance — and in their wake, the carrier fills with the quiet hum of laughter, love, and the distant promise of chaos to come.
(Later, Goose and Slider regale Hollywood, Wolfman, Sundown, Chipper, and Cougar with a wildly exaggerated retelling of the infamous “IceMav Walk-In” during their next leave together. The price of their silence? An all-you-can-eat buffet, courtesy of a very red-faced Maverick and an entirely unbothered Iceman. Years later, karma comes full circle when Goose walks into an eerily familiar scene—only this time, it’s his son, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, with a very naked Jake “Hangman” Seresin straddling his lap in the Bradshaw family living room… the same couch Goose watches his favorite soap operas on. Goose blames Mav and Ice.)
(Bradley and Jake buy him a new couch)
Top Gun premiere, 1986 👍🏻🫡❤
I know these pics are mostly about Tom. And fair, because HELLO.
But LOOK AT VAL OMG 😍😍
Agree 🤗🩵
🤠 The Second Coming of Chaos 🐓
(Found it! I got inspired by this post for this little story, all the credit to the author of the OG post, their work gave me this idea 💛✨️ also I love the idea of Hangster as the second coming of IceMav 😂)
Bradley Bradshaw was many things: pilot, smartass, the owner of the world’s most luxurious mustache, and—unfortunately, according to the man himself—the boyfriend of Jake Seresin. “Unfortunately” only because Jake never let anyone forget it.
Case in point: the ready room.
“Don’t know how my boyfriend even got to be Dagger Two,” Jake drawled, boots propped on the table, Stetson tipped back like he was auditioning for a Marlboro commercial. “Man flies slower than molasses in winter.”
Bradley didn’t even look up from his checklist. He just hummed, pen scratching over paper. Because he knew what was coming.
Jake leaned forward, flashing that cocky grin like a neon sign. “But you know what the important part of that sentence was?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “My boyfriend. Rooster Bradshaw. AKA Dagger Two.”
The Daggers groaned in unison, a chorus of “Oh my god, Hangman” and “We KNOW” bouncing around the room.
Phoenix smirked. “Do you have to announce it every five minutes?”
“Darlin’,” Jake said, shameless as ever, “when you’ve bagged a Bradshaw, you don’t whisper it. You shout it from the mountaintops.”
(Somewhere in the afterlife, Carole Bradshaw thoroughly agreed)
Bradley finally looked up, shaking his head with a smile. And sure enough—there it was. That smug, infuriating smirk that Jake pressed to his lips later, during kisses that left Bradley’s head spinning. Jake didn’t just kiss; he smirked against his mouth, broadcasting his victory with every brush of tongue and teeth. And Bradley, damn him, loved it.
Because the thing no one else noticed, not really, was that beneath the swagger and arrogance, Jake Seresin believed in him. Always had. Always would.
The only problem? Jake Seresin was a jealous bastard. With Capital letters.
For example: The moment some ensign gave Bradley a lingering look at the Hard Deck, Jake was there—arm around Bradley’s waist, smile all teeth and warning.
“You got somethin’ you wanna say, son?”
Jake asked, drawl thick as honey but sharp as a knife.
The ensign stammered an excuse and bolted, while Bradley sipped his beer, amused.
“You know,” Bradley murmured, low enough for only Jake to hear, “if you keep growling at everyone who glances at me, people are gonna think you’re insecure.”
Jake leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dripping with that southern heat. “Not insecure, Roo. Just territorial.”
Bradley shivered. Damn that accent. When Jake got like this—territorial, smug, jealous—that Texas drawl deepened, wrapped around him like barbed wire and velvet. Bradley melted, every damn time.
That night, Jake proved his point.
They stumbled into Bradley’s place, mouths fused together, Jake’s smirk pressed into every kiss. Shirts peeled off, hands wandering, the kind of heated mess that left Bradley’s back pressed to the wall and Jake’s cowboy drawl rumbling in his ear.
“You’re mine, Bradley Bradshaw. You hear me?” Jake whispered against his throat, lips trailing fire.
Bradley groaned, tugging him closer. “Loud and clear, cowboy.”
The world dissolved into heat and breathless laughter, the clumsy thud of boots hitting the floor, and Jake’s hands everywhere at once. It wasn’t just sex (though the sex was quite good, for anyone who might wonder)—it was claiming, celebrating, worshiping.
And through it all, Jake never stopped smirking, never stopped murmuring in that slow southern cadence that drove Bradley wild.
By the time they collapsed, sweaty and breathless, Bradley was wrecked in the best way—and Jake, of course, looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
And somewhere across base, whenever Jake went into his "Bradshaw's my boyfriend and only mine" rants, Maverick and Iceman watched from afar, amused. And a little nostalgic.
Mav nudged Ice, eyes sparkling. “Remind you of anyone?”
Ice, still an absolute feast to the eyes, sharp and handsome as ever in his COMPACFLT uniform, smirked.
“Oh, absolutely. History repeating itself. Though we we're hotter and better”
Maverick smirk and nodded, taking his husband's hand “Think they’ll last?”
Ice didn’t hesitate. He was certain about it. “They’re us, Thirty years ago. Of course they’ll last.”
Maverick kissed his cheek, just above Iceman’s beauty mark (Maverick’s beauty mark) and said, cocksure and teasing:
"I'm still the better pilot, just for the record"
Iceman laugh, low and deep "Remind me again, between us, who won Top gun?"
Maverick raised his eyebrow "I saved your ass not five minutes after that, so I believe that makes me the better pilot"
Iceman tugged him closer, kissing him deeply and leaving him breathless, an absolute flustered mess, Maverick, dazed and with a dreamy look in his eyes, was unable to talked when Iceman said "Well I bagged you, so I win"
And truly, can't argue with that logic. Can't you?
In that moment, it felt like destiny—that Jake “Hangman” Seresin and Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw were writing the second chapter of a love story that had started long before either of them were able to walk.
Bonus: Goose Didn’t Die for This But Here We Are.
Naval Air Station North Island had seen a lot of things in its day, but nothing quite prepared the old guard (AKA the '86 flyboys) for what was waiting in the ready room.
Slider, Wolfman, Sundown, Chipper, and Hollywood had come to visit Mav and Ice — some reunion-slash-seminar-slash-“let’s remind the Daggers what a real dogfight looked like.”
What they found instead was déjà vu in the form of one Bradley Bradshaw and one Jake Seresin.
It started innocently enough. Rooster sat on the edge of a desk, flipping through his checklist. Hangman swaggered in, leaned right into his space, and said loudly, “Don’t know how my boyfriend even makes it into the air without forgettin’ which way’s up.”
Bradley rolled his eyes, kissed him just to shut him up, and Jake — smirked against his mouth.
Hollywood went rigid. “...oh no.”
Sundown rubbed his temples. “This is happening again.”
Wolfman groaned into his hands. “Not another one.”
Chipper muttered a prayer under his breath. “Goose, buddy, give us strength. You didn’t die for this.”
Slider stared, jaw slack, then shot a look at Ice. “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t see it.”
Ice, smug as a fox (a silver fox), smirked.
“What can I say? Love’s a battlefield.”
Mav grinned like the devil himself. “I told you, didn’t I? They’re us.”
The room filled with groans, because yes — the cocky Texan who couldn’t stop bragging about his boyfriend while still acting like he wanted to shove him in a locker?
The scrappy, mustached Navy legacy who secretly loved every second of it?
Yeah. That was Ice and Mav circa 1986, and none of them had enough whiskey in their systems to deal with a rerun.
That night, over beers at the Hard Deck, the original flyboys held an emergency meeting.
“Alright,” Hollywood said, banging a pint glass against the table. “If history is repeating itself, we need to get ahead of it.”
“Agreed,” Wolfman said. “We barely survived round one.”
“Seminar,” Sundown declared. “The Daggers need a seminar.”
“On what?” Chipper asked, a photo of Saint Goose in hand.
“On enemies-to-lovers pilots,” Wolfman said grimly. “And how to survive it.”
Slider groaned. “Great. We’re making a PowerPoint.”
Hollywood stared at him like he was an idiot "Sli, nobody uses PowerPoint anymore, we use Canva now, join the 21st century, would you?"
Slider threw an use napkin at him.
The next morning, the Daggers found themselves corralled into a briefing room where the OGs stood at the front, deadly serious.
“Welcome,” Hollywood began, clicking the projector. A slide popped up: ‘When Your Teammates are Secretly in Love But Also Hate Each Other: A Survival Guide.’
Bradley and Jake sat in the back, Jake with his arm slung smugly around Bradley’s shoulders, Bradley hiding his grin behind his mustache.
IceMav were sitting next to them, Maverick with caramel popcorn and Iceman spinning his pen.
Wolfman pointed to the slide. “Rule one: If they’re bickering, stay out of it. You’ll lose.”
“Rule two,” Sundown added, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can flirt with either one of them. It will end badly.”
“Rule three,” Chipper chimed in, “When they finally get together, the smug one—” he glanced at Ice, who smirked knowingly, “—will never shut up about it. Ever.”
“Rule four,” Slider finished, “Invest in earplugs. Trust us.”
"Rule five" They said in unison, "ALWAYS KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING THE LOCKER ROOM"
"Less you wanna get a front row view of your friends asses and hear things therapy won't be able to get out of your memory" Wolfman said, looking haunted.
Maverick jump at that "THAT HAPPENED ONE TIME!"
Slider pointed at him, accusingly, "Eighteen times, shortstack!"
The Daggers exchanged looks somewhere between horrified and amused.
Phoenix raised her hand. “So you’re saying Rooster and Hangman are basically Maverick and Iceman 2.0?”
“Exactly,” Hollywood said, clicking to a photo of Ice and Mav in 1986, glaring at each other in flight suits.
The room fell into laughter — except Bradley, who groaned, and Jake, who only leaned over and whispered, drawl dripping like honey: “Guess that makes us legends, darlin’.”
"Keep dreaming, Seresin" Iceman said, shameless, cocky and aloof, while taking some of Maverick’s popcorn.
Bradley melted, of course.
The OGs collectively sighed. “God help us all,” Wolfman muttered. “It’s happening again."
It's done!!!
Hold the line (Love isn't always on time)
Tom learned from a very young age that being a Kazansky came with a series of requirements attached.
And then he met Maverick.
❄️🔥❄️🔥❄️🔥
[This isn’t a love story where two people collide. It’s one where two people finally stop running]
This is my baby—my very first time publishing one of my longer (really long) works....
I poured so much of myself into this work—and truly, I love it 💕
I'm working on something and I'm really excited about it 🤗
🔥 The Glasses Maneuver 🔥
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell and Tom "Iceman" Kazansky have always been close. Ever since the famous "you can be my wingman anytime" and the boisterous answer of "bullshit, you can be mine" it was established that where you found one, the other was closer behind.
For the world, they were legends. Wingmen. Brothers-in-arms. The Navy’s finest, forged in adrenaline and danger, polished by time and trust.
But for each other?
They were the secret that never really was.
From 1986 to the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, they danced the careful ballet of hidden glances and midnight rendezvous. Everyone knew—of course they did. But no one said a word. Not when Top Gun's golden boys locked eyes a little too long. Not when “best friends” took all their leave time together, year after year. Not even when they bought a beach house “as an investment.”
By the time they married—on the deck of a decommissioned carrier with the sun setting behind them like it was part of the ceremony, they had already been through hell and back.
Now, Ice was a Rear Admiral. Strategic, calm, as precise as ever, his edges as clean as his pressed whites. Maverick? A Captain who still flew like rules were just strong suggestions. Together, they were unstoppable.
But power and medals aside, nothing, nothing, could prepare Pete "Maverick" Mitchell for the war crime that happened one Tuesday evening.
He came home from base late—sunburnt, windblown, sand in his boots and cocky smirk still intact—only to freeze in the doorway.
There, sprawled on the couch like a sin in a Calvin Klein ad, was Tom "Iceman" Kazansky. Shirtless. Sweats riding scandalously low, revealing the promise of a V-line that seemed hand-sculpted by the gods of flight themselves. His hair, no longer regulation-tight, tumbled lazily over his forehead, kissed by silver. And on his face…
The glasses.
Slim, elegant, steel-rimmed traitors to Maverick’s sanity.
Iceman looked up from the book in his hand—The Art of War, of course—and offered a smirk that could’ve melted steel.
“Hey, baby. You’re late. Made you dinner,” he said, voice warm, casual, utterly composed. Then, with the cruel flick of a wrist and a glint of the lenses catching the light, he asked:
“Do you like them?”
Oh no.
Maverick’s brain went blank. Static. Full tunnel vision. All systems offline except one: the one that said jump your gorgeous husband right now.
“I want to sit in your lap and kiss your face forever,” he blurted, words tumbling over themselves in sheer desperation, “and let you bang me while you wear your glasses.”
Iceman blinked, bemused. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
Maverick, already halfway out of his uniform, straddled his husband with zero shame. “Yes.”
The laughter that followed was low and intimate, a hum against his throat. And then, the glasses stayed on.
Their kisses were molten, slow, reverent. Maverick’s fingers tangled in hair gone soft with age and freedom, his mouth finding the curve of Ice’s collarbone, his pulse, his jaw.
Iceman’s hands roamed with knowing intent, his control ironclad but tender. He whispered things only Maverick was meant to hear, things about belonging, about time, about always.
They didn’t rush. They savored. On that worn leather couch, in the dim of their home, with the faint scent of garlic from the untouched dinner and the sound of waves crashing through the open balcony doors, they made love like men who had waited decades to be seen.
And Ice wore the glasses the whole time.
After that? Maverick was wrecked. Completely, irreversibly undone.
Every time Iceman reached for those glasses, whether to read, to sign papers, or once (bless him) to fix the thermostat—Maverick would visibly short-circuit. He’d stutter. He’d blush like a teenager. He’d practically mount him in the hallway.
“You’re wearing them again,” Maverick once whispered, cornering him in the kitchen.
Ice, slicing a tomato like a man who didn’t just cause a five-alarm lust emergency, merely raised a brow. “They help me see.”
“They help me see the light,” Maverick groaned, pressing up against him, hands already snaking under the admiral’s shirt.
It became a pattern. A very dangerous pattern.
Iceman started wearing them more often. Meetings. Mornings. Once to Maverick’s promotion ceremony, fully knowing what that would do.
Let’s just say they had to explain a few bruises the next day.
But this was their love story: not loud, not flamboyant, but burning bright and steady, like the afterglow of afterburners lighting up the sky.
Still wingmen. Still best friends. Still in love.
But now?
Everyone knew.
And neither of them gave a damn.
It is officially day 100 of missing
Val Kilmer.
The world isn't the same without you. 🥺
🩵😇🕊
Top Gun - Incorrect Quote 367
Bradley (16 years): *Arguing with Goose and Carole* This bloodline ends with me
Maverick *Whispers to Ice*: That's the fanciest way I've ever heard someone say "I'm gay"
⬆️ This gave me an idea 🤭
🌻This Bloodline Ends With Me🌻
In the Bradshaw household, dinner was usually a peaceful affair. A little laughter, a little teasing, and a lot of carbs. But tonight, the lasagna sat on the table like a silent witness to what could only be described as a full-blown domestic tempest.
Goose paced by the counter, wild-eyed and visibly distressed. Carole, arms crossed and eyebrows raised with the quiet rage of a woman who’s spent seventeen years cleaning up after boys with too many feelings and not enough communication skills, glared at her son.
Bradley Bradshaw, sixteen, beautiful, brooding, and currently the reigning teenage mystery of North Island High School, slouched dramatically in his chair. His curls were unkempt, his Converse untied, and his expression the definition of don’t test me.
“You skipped practice again.”
Goose’s voice was sharp, the sound of a man betrayed by both baseball and his offspring.
“And your English teacher emailed me,” Carole added, shooting a look that could reduce a grown man to jelly. “Apparently, you spent the entire period sketching… roses? And hearts?”
She blinked. “Hearts with cowboy hats?”
Across the table, Maverick raised an eyebrow. Iceman, cool and composed as ever, took a dignified sip of his wine.
Bradley’s lips twitched. He was trying not to smile.
“You’ve been sneaking out after midnight,” Goose continued, growing more dramatic by the second. “You don’t call, you don’t text, and last week I found glitter in the laundry. Glitter, Baby goose! You’re not a magician. What is going on? Talk to us, son.”
Bradley stood, a flush rising to his cheeks. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again “This bloodline ends with me,” he declared, voice trembling with the weight of... whatever Shakespearean-level crisis was brewing in his soul.
A beat of silence.
Maverick leaned toward Iceman with the timing of a seasoned performer.
“That’s the fanciest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘I’m gay,’” he whispered.
Iceman nodded solemnly, eyes misty. “Elegant,” he murmured. “Poetic.”
Carole and Goose stared, mouths slightly agape.
Bradley, cheeks now the color of emergency-red, eyes wide with panic, looked between them like he might bolt straight through the drywall. But he stood his ground—barely.
“Baby,” Carole said, her voice softening like butter in the sun. She stepped forward, eyes warm and shining. “Are you coming out?”
He nodded. Small. Brave.
Carole didn’t wait another second. She wrapped her arms around him with the force of a woman who’d carried him through scraped knees, tantrums, and first-day-of-school meltdowns. She kissed his head like he was still five.
Goose was next. He pulled them both in, hugging his son like he might fall apart if he let go.
“You are the best thing I’ve ever made, Brad,” he said, eyes glassy. “And I don’t care who you love. You could be dating a three-headed alien who communicates through jazz hands—I would still be the proudest damn father on this side of the Pacific.”
Bradley laughed, relief blooming in his chest like a wildflower. “Well… he only has one head,” he muttered.
“And jazz hands?” Maverick asked, hopefully.
Bradley shook his head. “No, just… hands. Very nice ones.”
🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻
Three Days Later there was a knock on the door just past seven.
Goose, mid-beer, opened it—and froze.
There, standing on the Bradshaws’ porch like a character straight out of a teenage fever dream, was Jake Seresin.
Six foot something, golden hair tousled to perfection, a varsity jacket slung casually over one shoulder, and eyes so green they probably had their own weather system. He held a bouquet of sunflowers—bright, beaming, deeply romantic. His grin was slow, easy, Southern.
“Evenin’, sir,” Jake said, with the kind of charm that made Carole peek around the corner and mutter “Oh my God, he’s real” under her breath.
“My name’s Jake. I’m… I’m Bradley’s boyfriend. And I was wonderin’ if I could have your blessing to keep seein’ him.”
Behind him, Bradley hovered in the yard, trying not to spontaneously combust.
Goose blinked. Once. Twice. Then he stepped aside, nodding slowly.
“Come in, Jake.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jake said, stepping into the house with a grace that would’ve made a Disney prince jealous.
“Also,” Carole added, eyes twinkling as she looked Jake up and down like a proud matchmaker, “you’re adorable.”
Jake blushed.
Bradley groaned.
Maverick whispered, “I give it six months before they’re prom kings.”
Iceman, ever the realist, murmured, “Three. Max.”
But in that little California living room, under the hum of warm lights and the eyes of four very proud parents, two teenage boys stood side by side, holding hands like they were writing the start of something epic.
And maybe, just maybe, that bloodline wasn’t ending after all.
It was just beginning something new.
Something golden-haired, green-eyed, and hopelessly, stupidly, wonderfully in love.
🏳️🌈Top Shelf Jealousy 🥃🍸 🏳️🌈
🛑🛑🛑 NSFW-EXPLICIT 🛑🛑🛑
The Officers' Club at Miramar was a storm of celebration, soaked in red, white, and blue. It was the 4th of July, 1987, and the Flyboys had a lot to be proud of. The Layton Mission had been a flawless triumph, and now Maverick and Iceman were not just co-pilots—they were wingmen in the deepest sense of the word.
The evening was thick with heat and sweat, the kind that clung to your skin and mixed with the buzz of pride and cheap beer. Laughter, the clink of glasses, and the sound of a live cover band spilling out 80s rock filled the O Club like smoke.
At the corner table, Maverick leaned back in his chair, talking to Hollywood and Wolfman, who were practically melting into each other. They'd made up after their dramatic fallout over some jealousy debacle, and now they were all hand-holding and heart-eyes, radiating bliss.
“I’ve never been jealous of anyone,” Maverick declared, tipping his beer. “Jealousy is stupid.”
Hollywood snorted. Wolfman just smirked knowingly.
As if summoned by the gods of irony, Iceman walked in.
No. Glided
Like a goddamn runway model walking through a heatwave—Iceman returned from the bar, tall, golden, glowing with smug triumph. A vodka martini shimmered in his hand.
“Guys, look!” he said, with a blinding grin. “Got free drinks from the ladies.” His eyes sparkled like he just won a dogfight without breaking a sweat.
Maverick's head whipped around. His jaw clenched. His pout could've been registered as a natural disaster.
Maverick started. Then sulked so hard it was visible from low orbit, his face soured like milk in the desert
“I could’ve bought it for you,” he muttered, sulky. “I would buy you all the vodka in the world. Top shelf, even. Not that cheap shit.”
Every Flyboy at the table paused, the moment suspended like a MiG in a stall.
Slider, face in his hands, like he was looking at a car crash happening right in front of him: “What the hell is happening? I want to look away and yet I can’t.”
Goose, deadpan: “Never been jealous, huh? Bullshit, honey.”
Hollywood and Wolfman, now smugly in sync: “So jealousy is stupid? Guess he's joining the club now.”
Sundown, whispering as he scribbled in a napkin: “And here we observe the beginning of Maverick’s jealousy display. Note the puffed cheeks. Brain activity: minimal. His brain has left the building, folks,”
Chipper, sipping his drink and daydreaming aloud: “I want a free drink too…” Then, turning to Sundown: “Sunny, buy me a drink.”
Sundown didn’t even blink. “On it, baby.” He was already halfway to the bar.
Meanwhile, Iceman, still effortlessly perfect, raised the martini like an offering. His cheeks were puffed like a smug chipmunk as he grinned.
“You like vodka, Pete? I can share with you.”
Maverick, eyes locked on him, murmured under his breath, “Marry me.”
Iceman froze. His cool exterior cracked just slightly, a tremor in the Force.
Then he dropped the glass, grabbed Maverick’s wrist, and hoisted him up like a sack of hormones. Their lips crashed, the kiss steamy, messy, and loud enough to drown out the band.
“I accept, my reckless menace,” Iceman growled into Maverick’s mouth.
The table exploded. Goose nearly fell out of his chair. Slider screamed. Hollywood and Wolfman clapped like seals. Chipper, with the drink Sundown got for him, was watching the display with barely content amusement, and Sundown looked like they just saw a unicorn in aviators.
“I love you, Ice,” Maverick whispered, dazed.
Without another word, Iceman stormed out of the bar with Maverick in his arms—still kissing, still clinging—biting his neck with reckless passion. Maverick moaned, loud enough to make a lieutenant at the next table choke on her beer.
The girls who’d bought Iceman the drink glared daggers.
Maverick turned his head mid-air, flipped them off with flourish, stuck out his tongue, and then—in front of God and country—kissed Iceman in a way that should’ve been classified.
The Flyboys lost it. Laughter shook the room. Someone choked on a peanut. Someone else called it “better than the Layton mission.”
Slider shouted, “This is so against protocol!”
Sundown screamed, “Screw protocol, I’m getting popcorn!”
It was the hottest Independence Day Miramar had ever seen.
And from that night on, no one ever believed Maverick when he said he didn’t get jealous.
🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑
Outside the O Club, the night was thick with heat, the air still echoing with music and laughter. Fireworks crackled in the sky above Miramar, but Maverick didn't see them.
He only saw Iceman—his golden hair haloed in red and blue bursts, his eyes dark and stormy, his hands locked around Maverick’s waist like he was afraid to let go.
They stumbled into Iceman’s barracks, door slamming shut behind them like a closing cockpit. Maverick barely got a breath in before Iceman had him pressed against the wall, mouths crashing together again in a kiss that made the Fourth of July look tame.
"You're insane," Iceman murmured against Maverick’s lips, breath hot, voice thick.
"You're glowing," Maverick whispered back, smirking, but his voice cracked with want. "You always do after a kill."
“This isn’t about a kill,” Iceman growled, dragging his mouth along Maverick’s jaw. “This is about you.”
Their hands moved in frantic, practiced rhythm—like dogfighting in a bedroom instead of the sky. Shirts hit the floor, buttons popped, boots kicked off like they were burning.
Iceman pinned Maverick to the bed, hovering above him like he was savoring the sight. His body moved like silk over steel, every motion deliberate, every touch designed to make Maverick lose his mind. Maverick's hands clawed at Iceman’s back, legs wrapping around his waist.
Then—teeth. Lips. Tongue.
Iceman’s mouth moved to Maverick’s neck, and he bit. Not hard enough to hurt, but deep enough to brand. Then again. And again.
Maverick arched, groaning into the dark room, nails digging into Iceman’s shoulder blades. "You’re marking me—"
"I should mark you," Iceman hissed, voice pure gravel and lust. "You're mine, Pete."
Iceman let his hands roam all over Maverick's body, as if he wanted to forever commit the feel of his muscles to memory, as if Maverick were the eighth wonder of the world. Moving down, Iceman left more love bites, applying more pressure to the areas that made Maverick moan in that way that was quickly driving Iceman crazy.
"Ice, please." Maverick slid his hands into Iceman's blond hair and pulled, almost unconsciously, too consumed by the sensations Tom was awakening in him. The way Iceman's lips closed around his right nipple and sucked had Maverick practically doubling over in bed, bringing his chest closer to Tom's mouth as he opened his legs as wide as he could, making room for Iceman and grinding himself against Iceman's erection, feeling his dick slide against his own. "Don't stop."
"I wasn't planning on doing it." Iceman switched to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, sucking hard and biting hard enough to send sparks shooting up and down Maverick's spine. Tom had never considered himself a tit man, but Maverick's drove him crazy. Every time he saw him changing in the locker room, he had to physically restrain himself from jumping on Maverick.
Once satisfied with his work, Maverick's nipples red and swollen from the attention, Iceman continued down Maverick's body, leaving more marks on Maverick's abdomen, until he reached his cock.
And without a second thought, he swallowed it in his mouth, earning an extremely pornographic moan from Maverick, "Oh shit, Ice, please." Iceman sucked like his life depended on it, with astonishing efficiency, determined to worship Maverick's dick like he'd wanted to since he'd first seen Maverick in the Top Gun classroom.
Maverick raised himself up on his forearms, his legs spread wide, not wanting to miss a thing about what was happening, mesmerized by the sight of Iceman's lips closed around his shaft, those perfect lips full, red and glistening with saliva, doing things to him that were definitely ruining him for anyone else (which was good because Maverick didn't want anyone but Iceman. Ever).
"Ice, as much as I'm enjoying what you're doing, I'm about to cum, and I'd rather do it—oh shit—do it while you're fucking me."
With a disgruntled grunt, Tom pulled off Maverick's cock, giving the head one last suck, savoring the precum coating it. "Ice, come on, stop teasing and fuck me already."
"So impatient," Tom mocked adoringly, kissing Maverick's pout and proceeding to open Maverick with his lube fingers. Maverick rocked against the fingers that grazed his prostate with a cruel rhythm, whining and moaning, dragging his nails along Iceman's back, leaving red trails that only increased Iceman's arousal. "You want me so bad, my beautiful menace?"
"Yes, fuck, yes, please."
Iceman loved watching Maverick undone by his fingers, lost in lust for him, moaning with tears in the corners of his eyes. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Maverick Mitchell wasn't just a threat in the sky, he was also a threat in the bedroom, especially to Tom's sanity. He would never recover from the feeling of Maverick against him, in his arms, his lips, his beautiful eyes, the beautiful sounds he made for him.
Iceman was also on the edge, as hard as he had ever been for anyone else, so without being able to wait any longer, he took his fingers out of Maverick, lubed his dick and entered Maverick in one long, non-stop, slow and measured motion, drawing a muffled moan from Maverick, who held him tighter, closing his eyes and throwing his head back at the sensation of Iceman finally inside him.
Iceman hid his face in Maverick's neck, kissing the skin he could reach, taking a deep breath to keep from cumming just from the feel of Maverick around his cock. Hot, tight, and silky. Perfect.
Maverick clenched his walls around Iceman, and that was the only signal Tom needed to start thrusting. At first, in long, slow strokes, letting Maverick get used to the sensation, but once Maverick relaxed completely, surrendering to the feel of Iceman's cock's tip rubbing against his sweet spot, Iceman increased the intensity of his movements, taking on a fast and precise rhythm, devastating yet exquisite.
"Ice, I want... I—fuck." Maverick could barely form words, his sentences cut off by moans and whines. Iceman didn't stop his movements, but leaned back on his arms to look at Maverick, watching his lips part in a soundless moan.
"What is it, Mav? What do you want?" Iceman slowed his thrusts, still devastating.
Instead of answering, Maverick wrapped his legs around Tom's waist, and in a move of astonishing dexterity, switched positions (Iceman never pulling out of him), straddling Iceman, placing his hands on Iceman's pecs, giving them a light squeeze that made Tom grunt.
"God, Mav." Iceman gripped Maverick's waist, his fingers leaving imprints that would definitely be visible for weeks.
Instead of answering, Maverick gyrated his hips in controlled circles, the new position making Maverick feel Iceman deeper inside him. Maverick bit his lip, consumed by the sensation.
Unable to resist, Iceman rose, pulling Maverick against his chest and kissing him deeply and filthily, his tongue forcing its way into Maverick's mouth, who placed his hands on Tom's neck and rocked gently.
Still kissing Maverick, Iceman braced his feet on the bed, tightened his grip on Maverick, and thrust enthusiastically in small, spurting motions, eliciting soft "ahs" from Maverick, who kissed him back with gusto, and something else they both knew was more than just pleasure and lust.
Feeling close to climax, Maverick pushed Iceman back onto the bed, spreading his legs wider, arching his back, and resting his arms on either side of Ice's head. Ice placed his hands on each of Maverick's ass cheeks, squeezing the globes and rubbing his fingers where his cock split Maverick open.
"Ice, Ice, Ice." Maverick chanted Tom's name like a mantra, his movements faster, bouncing on Tom's lap, the slap of their skin creating a harmonious symphony that mingled with their moans and grunts. Maverick rode Iceman like a professional cowboy, lost in pleasure, his thighs burning with exertion but unwilling to stop, not when Iceman looked this good, his eyes fully dilated, the blue glowing with love and pleasure, his lips parted, swollen and red, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Maverick surrendered to the sensation of pleasure that consumed him, his arms giving way, causing Maverick to lie on top of Iceman like a blanket, his face pressed against Iceman's. Iceman wasted no time kissing Maverick sweetly. His hands, still on Maverick's ass, served as leverage as he bent his legs and thrust into Maverick, his rhythm erratic as he was so close to cumming, but he refused to come before Maverick did. He wanted to see Maverick cum first, see his face contort in ecstasy.
And he didn’t have to wait long, not when in a respite from their passionate kisses, Iceman latched onto one of Maverick’s nipples, licking, sucking, and eventually biting, which seemed to be what sent Maverick over the edge, coming without touching, moaning gutturally, holding Iceman’s head against his chest, and grinding against him, his walls clenching as he rode out his orgasm, squeezing Iceman’s cock and bringing out Iceman’s climax, drawing an almost pained grunt from him.
Without thinking, Iceman bit Maverick's shoulder, eliciting a moan and causing him to shiver. Iceman moved on to kiss Maverick's neck again, leaving more love bites.
By the time it was over—when Maverick was limp, sweaty, utterly wrecked in Iceman’s arms—his neck was a constellation of red, dark love bites trailing down his throat and collarbone like a flight path.
Iceman kissed each one, murmuring his name like a vow. Maverick could only hum, eyes heavy-lidded, smiling like he just landed a perfect carrier approach.
"You’re evil," he mumbled.
"And you're mine," Iceman replied, stroking a hand down Maverick’s spine.
They lay tangled in the sheets, the room still hot with the remnants of fireworks and breathless promises. Outside, the last bursts of color faded into the night sky.
But inside—Iceman was still burning, and Maverick had never felt more home.
Goose on the Loose: Mission Makeout (An unauthorized romantic military operation—and possibly a war crime) 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
(This is part of my pride month series)
Nick "Goose" Bradshaw had faced down MiGs, diaper duty, survived Mach 2 flat spins, and once ate gas station sushi on a dare. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this. For them.
He slammed his locker shut with the force of a thousand repressed sighs. "That’s it. I’m done. I can’t anymore."
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, his tragically dense pilot, had once again spent ten minutes in the locker room having what could only be described as a foreplay argument with Tom "Iceman" Kazansky.
It had begun with “You’re dangerous,” had dipped briefly into “you’ve got no discipline,” and ended in a slow-motion towel snap that could get someone pregnant.
Goose was losing it.
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
At home, Goose paced the living room, baby Bradley gurgling happily in Carole’s arms. She hummed as she rocked the baby, her gaze warm and patient.
“I’m telling you, babe—it’s not just me! They stare! They compliment insult each other! They even checked out each other's asses in formation!”
Carole—his radiant, patient goddess of a wife—handed him a mug of coffee and waited for the rant she knew was incoming.
“It’s like Top Gun: Pride and Prejudice out there, Carole,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. “They eye each other like it’s a duel. A slow burn duel. I saw Ice check out Mav’s ass today. Twice. Once during warm-ups, and again when Mav dropped his pen. It’s like they’re flirting through gritted teeth.”
Carole blinked. “You sure they’re not just rivals?”
Goose leaned in, whispering urgently: “They almost kissed in the locker room. Like, noses-brushed kind of kiss. That’s not a rivalry. That’s a crisis of repressed sexual longing!”
Carole, ever the battlefield nurse to Goose’s emotional triage, just nodded. “Honey, are you saying you want Maverick and Iceman to… kiss it out?”
“I want them to stop staring! Or start doing something! For fucks sake!”
Carole chuckled. “Sounds like you need a team.”
That was the night Goose snapped. Maverick and Iceman were clearly locked in a Cold War of Lust, and by God, he was going to end it.
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
And Carole was right, Goose couldn't do it alone. He needed a team.
He knew just the guys for the job. Oh yeah. It was on.
Operation: Mission Makeout
Initiated at 0800 hours.
The first recruits were easy.
Slider, Iceman’s long-suffering RIO, sighed and said, “Finally.”
Hollywood and Wolfman high-fived.
Sundown muttered, “I knew those locker room vibes weren’t just sweat.”
And Chipper? He just whispered, “Bless you, Goose,” like a man finally freed.
They commandeered a conference room no one ever used and built a war board.
Photos. Incidents. A string connecting Maverick’s locker to Iceman’s bunk with a red thumbtack labeled “THE TENSION ZONE.”
A corkboard was wheeled in. Lines of red yarn were pinned between shirtless volleyball photos and the word “TENSION” written in all caps.
“I’ve seen it too,” said Hollywood grimly. “That time in the hangar, they locked eyes over a wrench. I think I heard music.”
“Slider and I saw them lean in too close. It was like watching a telenovela,” added Wolfman, clutching a margarita and distant trauma.
Chipper held up a diagram labeled IceMav Situation Escalation. “They keep almost kissing during flight checks. The danger is increasing.”
Goose slapped the board. “Then it’s time. Operation: Makeout is a go.”
Plan A: Get them alone together.
Result: They talked. About maneuvers. While slowly unzipping flight suits.
Plan B: Accidental karaoke duet of “Take My Breath Away.”
Result: They made eye contact. Then fled in opposite directions.
Plan C: Lock them in a supply closet.
Result: They played hangman on a clipboard and emerged looking even more sexually frustrated.
The squad was losing hope. Nothing worked.
The tension only grew.
At one point, Slider swore the air between them was physically vibrating.
“We’re gonna die of secondhand horniness,” Hollywood groaned, downing a shot of something neon green.
Goose look at his friends, all tired and mentally drained. “Let's go get drunk”
Everyone cheer.
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
That’s when Carole intervened.
She found them at the O-Club, mid-spiral, nursing cocktails and heartbreak. Carole sipped her cocktail like a war general watching fools fumble the mission.
“You need to stop pushing them together,” she said. “You need to make them jealous.”
Goose blinked. “Jealous?”
“Yeah. Get under their skin. Make them act. Don’t be Cupid. Be the other guy.”
It was wildly unstrategic.
It wasn’t even on their corkboard.
But desperation is the mother of absurd.
Goose’s eyes narrowed. “You brilliant, beautiful genius.”
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
The next week, Sundown pretended to flirt with Maverick. Maverick’s eyes darted to Iceman, who was suddenly training alone shirtless for no reason.
Slider “accidentally” kissed Iceman’s cheek in front of Maverick. Maverick didn’t blink for thirty-two full seconds.
Goose faked an injury so Carole could get close to Iceman and thank him for “being such a good friend to Nicky.” Maverick short-circuited.
Goose had seen the signs all week: Maverick flexed his fists whenever Slider got any closer than necessary to Iceman, clenched his jaw whenever Wolfman laughed flirtatiously at something Tom said (Goose was worried about Maverick's molars).
Oh yeah. Carole was right. It was only a matter of time before something happened. Anything. Goose would be happy with something as basic as not having to watch Tom check Maverick's ass at least five times a day.
Then… it happened.
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
On an ordinary day, as Goose, Slider, Hollywood and Wolfman were returning to the locker room after a hop, they heard it:
There was a scream—possibly Chipper—and then silence.
Everyone ran, worried that something serious had happened, what they found was Sundown crouching down, holding his head in his hands, muttering something about pale assess and emotionally stupid pilots.
Chipper was leaning against the wall, pale and barely holding on, saying, over and over again, "I just wanted to grab my towel. Just the towel. How was I supposed to know Maverick was going to explode and get all territorial over Iceman? Oh man, I'm never going to be able to use that towel again.”
Then the sound of a locker slamming open, bodies colliding, and finally, finally—
Kissing.
Passionate, triumphant, emotionally overdue kissing.
They emerged looking starstruck, glistening, and joined at the hip like a slightly homoerotic centaur.
Maverick was grinning like a cat who got the milk, his hair completely disheveled, his lips swollen, his neck looking like it had been attacked by a vampire, covered in love bites.
(Iceman was a biter. Good to know)
Iceman, for his part, looked absolutely smug, his lips red, his eyes bright, his clothes disheveled, a very subtle semi, and an aura of complete peace.
He was the embodiment of a man in love.
Everyone stood frozen, staring at Maverick and Iceman like ghosts, and then...
Screams, hugs, backslapping, and high fives. They did it, the mission was a success.
Slider lifted Goose onto his shoulders, Hollywood kissed Wolfman passionately, Sundown cried with joy, and Chipper told Maverick and Iceman they had to buy him new towels. Expensive ones. He deserved it.
Peace, they thought, had returned.
They were wrong.
Now Maverick sat on Iceman’s lap during briefings. Iceman casually bit Maverick’s neck during fuel checks. They made out in storage closets and hung signs reading Occupied – Danger Zone.
“HE CALLED HIM HIS ‘BELOVED MENACE’,” Wolfman whispered, eyes haunted.
Goose downed his whiskey. “We won the war, but at what cost?”
🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿
Years later, life was good, and the Flyboys were immune to IceMav's displays of love (and the occasional moment where someone would walk into a room to find Iceman bending Maverick in half and doing things to his ass). A lot of therapy was involved, but they were happy.
The Class of ’86, all admirals now, gathered at IceMav’s beachside house. They’d survived war, love, therapy, and at least three closet incidents involving caution tape.
That's when they saw it, almost in slow motion…
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw chatted casually with Jake “Hangman” Seresin across the grill. The air crackled. Meat sizzled with tension.
Hollywood dropped his beer. “Oh God. It’s happening again.”
Goose nodded solemnly. “It’s hereditary.”
Carole leaned back in her chair, sunglasses on, and smiled like a prophetess watching fate unfold.
Slider handed out tequila shots and a pamphlet titled "So Your Friend Is Being Emotionally Held Hostage By Sexual Tension: A Survival Guide".
They tried to warn Dagger Squad.
They tried.
But love… love always flies at Mach 10.5.
(Somewhere, in the distance, Great balls of fire plays on loop).
Top Gun: The Gay Agenda (A Goose’s Lament)🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
1986, Miramar, California.
Nick "Goose" Bradshaw was a patient man. A devoted husband. A loving father. A steady RIO. A rock. But as he sat in the locker room, towel around his neck, while Pete "Maverick" Mitchell ranted in full, barely-repressed-gay-glory about one Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Goose realized something truly chilling:
He was going to die surrounded by idiots.
"—and he's got these stupid, pretty blue eyes, Goose. Like—like oceans. Judgy, Arctic oceans. And his jaw? What the hell? It's like Michelangelo carved it himself. It's infuriating. He’s got these annoyingly capable hands and this silky, mocking voice like a villainous opera ghost, and he—he thinks he’s better than me just because he’s tall and broad and slim and hot! And don’t get me started on that beauty mark—I wanna punch his stupid angel face and kiss it at the same time and that’s messed up, right?!"
Goose stared at his best friend for a long, harrowed moment. “Mav.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart. You're in love with Iceman.”
Maverick blinked at him.
Goose turned, stood, and walked directly out of the locker room to call his wife.
That night, at the Bradshaw’s house, Carole, radiant queen of his universe, cackled like a banshee as Goose paced.
“I’m telling you, babe,” Goose moaned, massaging his temples. “It’s mutual. I overheard Iceman call him a ‘stupid green-eyed cutie.’ That’s not combat language, Carole, that’s foreplay!”
Carole nearly dropped the baby.
“I have spent weeks, WEEKS, keeping those two from killing each other or accidentally making out on the flight deck! And now? Now I have to make sure I knock before entering the locker room or I’ll walk in on Maverick’s legs around Iceman’s waist again! There were noises, Carole. Noises. I need hazard pay.”
But for all his complaints and grumblings, Goose was happy for his friends. And for himself, because, at last, he could put an end to the saga of emotionally repressed gay pilots.
He must have suspected this wasn't the case.
Goose never thought he’d be grateful for witnessing one emotionally-repressed Navy homoerotic slow burn resolve into a marriage, but the peace that settled after Ice and Mav tied the knot was glorious. Until…
The Phone Call.
“Hey, Dad?” Bradley’s voice, now grown and inflected with slight frustration, echoed through the line.
Goose smiled warmly. “Hey, kiddo. How’s flight school?”
“Fine. Mostly. Except this one guy—Jake Seresin. Ugh. He’s got these stupid pretty green eyes and this smug beautiful smile and he talks in this Texas drawl like he’s hot or something—he’s got dimples, Dad. Dimples. I swear, I wanna punch his annoyingly handsome face right in the—"
Goose froze. The coffee cup slipped from his hand in slow motion.
“Carole,” he whispered, handing over the phone like it was a live grenade. “Talk to your son about his OBVIOUS crush for Seresin. I—I can’t go through this again.”
On the other end: “WHAT?! It’s not a crush! I don’t even like him! He thinks he’s so slick just because he—he flies like he was born in a cockpit and he’s always—NO, MOM, STOP LAUGHING—this is serious!”
Goose was already on the other line, calling Iceman and Maverick.
“You DID this to him!”
Goose’s furious screech could probably be heard from orbit.
Maverick’s laughter came in unholy wheezing bursts, while he tried to say: “Technically, Goose, we never corrupted him. He’s just… following in our flightpath.”
“YOU TAUGHT HIM TO CRASH INTO GAY FEELINGS AT MACH THREE!”
Maverick wheezed, “I’m so proud of the kid. He’s even ranting like me!”
Iceman took the phone. “Hi, Goose.”
“Don’t you ‘Hi Goose’ me, Ice Prince of Gay Pining! This is your fault too!”
Iceman reply, calm and dry. “We accept full responsibility for corrupting your son. We’ll send a fruit basket. And tissues.”
“You cursed my bloodline with emotionally constipated, pilot-loving disaster men! You infected my son with your drama! Now he's as emotionally constipated as you two assholes”
Maverick gasped. “Goose. Goose. Did you just say that out loud?! Honey!”
“DON’T 'HONEY' ME, DEAR. I HATE YOU BOTH. I WANT NEW FRIENDS.”
“You’ll never do better,” Ice said serenely.
Carole could be heard in the background, howling.
Goose thought it couldn't get worse.
Until it did. Until it happened.
The Closet Incident
A week later, Goose received a call from Admiral Ron "Slider" Kerner. Current CO of NAS Pensacola. Goose braced for a tragedy.
“Hey, Goose. Slider here.”
Goose immediately felt dread.
“You're not going to like this, but—well—I just found Bradley and….”
Silence.
And then…
Goose isn't sure he heard correctly, but he swears something sounded like a dog choking on a bone. Was Slider choking?
“Bradshaw!” Slider chortled. “You’re not gonna believe this—I just caught your Gosling and Seresin in a storage closet. Doing things. Noises, Nick. NOISES”
Goose blue screen. He must have misheard Slider. He prayed he did.
“Say again?”. Please, PLEASE, tell me I heard wrong. Goose was at his wits' end, and he was sure this was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Trauma response. A form of PTSD. That must be it.
Instead: “Bradley and Jake. Storage closet. Caught them mid-thrust. Jake saluted me while still having your son inside him. Just thought you’d want the full picture, Admiral Dad.”
Goose screamed into a pillow for eleven minutes and then started therapy.
He was absolutely billing Iceman and Maverick.
After Slider's call (which the entire Top Gun '86 class knew about, thanks to Slider and Maverick), Goose was confident nothing worse could happen. Sure, the call he had with Bradley where they discussed guidelines for proper conduct regarding storage closets use in the Navy was awkward, but now everything was back to normal...sort of.
And then it happened again. On an ordinary day, a bomb landed on Admiral Nick "Goose" Bradshaw's desk.
In the form of a letter.
Dear Admiral Bradshaw,
Please accept my formal apology for the incident in the supply closet. While our timing was… unprofessional, my feelings for Bradley are entirely sincere.
I'd like to take this opportunity to officially ask for your blessing to have a relationship with your son (even though we've already had sex—again, sorry for the inconvenience—and we've done other things).
I really care about Bradley; he's perfect. I want you to know that I will always treat Bradley like the prince he is, because I'm sure your son is becoming my world.
I promise to always be the best version of myself for your son, because that's what he deserves. He makes me want to be better. To fly better. He's my wingman. And I will always take care of his wing.
Also, Bradley told me that you're close to Admiral Kerner (and I must confess that you and your friends intimidate me), so could you ask him to stop making faces and sounds every time he sees me? I'm worried he'll die of suffocation from laughing so much.
Respectfully,
Jake “Hangman” Seresin.
Goose practically ran the entire way home. Read the letter to Carole. Then together, they called Maverick and Iceman and read it again.
As Carole read the letter (and cried with laughter) Goose stared off into space like a man haunted by the ghosts of his past and Maverick could practically be heard on the floor laughing (gasping for air) Iceman, always composed and serene, said: “I like him. He asked permission. Good manners.”
Goose, finally out of his trance, said, "Iceman, you're paying for my therapy forever, man. This is worse than when I had to listen to you read poetry to Maverick while we were on the USS Enterprise.”
Iceman: “Fair.”
And so Admiral Goose Bradshaw carried on, wiser, wearier, and only mildly traumatized. He had survived the IceMav saga, and now the BradleyJake operation was well underway.
Sometimes, he looked up at the stars, wondering if future Bradshaws would continue this glittering, chaotic legacy of falling for their cocky flyboy nemesis.
He prayed not.
But just in case?
He increased the Navy’s mental health budget.
And added “Emotional Disaster Preparedness” to flight school training.
