summary after some last minute policy changes, you find yourself in miramar - you weren't sure that you expected the famous iceman to be as good-looking as he was cws implied/referenced smut, crude jokes, historical inaccuracies, alcohol wc 2.7k
so one.) i'm aware that there is no possible way that the restriction on women in combat would have been lifted during the reagan administration, let me pretend. and two.) i just rewatched top gun in dolby and i can't stop thinking about him... i'm filled with intense melancholy.
It had been three consistent years of your Commander trying to get you into Top Gun, each year being a bust.
Women weren’t allowed in combat; there was nothing that they could do. They understood that he saw some value in you, but that value could be replicated in a man. It just wasn’t possible. It was the same statements, the same reasons, over and over and over again. It didn’t matter how good a pilot you were or how good you were under pressure. What mattered was that you weren’t allowed in combat, and until there was a lift on women in combat, nothing was going to change.
But something did change.
The lift came as a last-minute announcement a few weeks before the next Top Gun class was set to take place. It was mid-June when you found out that you were going to Miramar, but you figured that plenty of people were given last-minute notice.
Still, you knew to be wary.
It made front-page news that there was a woman in Top Gun. You would be the first, and it came so soon after the announcement was made that most people figured that you were just waiting in the wings for your moment to be there. It was nerve-wracking to know that you would be the first woman, and only woman, at Top Gun. You were grateful and excited - there was no world in which you wouldn’t be - but you were still a bit scared to face all of the other men who were going to look at you, knowing that you weren’t exactly like them.
As of now, it was like a boy’s club. Even if they had advance warning that you were going to be there, that didn’t make it any less daunting to face a room of men whom you knew you would need to prove yourself to. But that had been something you were used to by now. You were one of the best pilots that your Commander had come across, but you hadn’t really had the opportunity to shine.
Maybe that skill came from the fact that you had to work twice as hard to be considered and respected. It wasn’t that the other aviators weren’t skilled or even that they were lazy or handed their positions. You wouldn’t say something like that about any of the men whom you had gotten to know. But you knew that you had to work twice as hard as would be asked of them if you wanted people to see you as an equal and a peer rather than just a woman trying to be within their midsts.
Fear aside, there was no way you were going to back down from the challenge.
The San Diego heat was blazing when you arrived and were given your assignments. To the best of your knowledge, you were placed beside Lieutenant Bradshaw.
The first day came quicker than you anticipated. You were seated at the top of the room, keeping your attention on the front. But you could feel the eyes on you. You were a bit surprised, though. There was some scrutiny; you could feel that, but you didn’t feel like anyone was snickering about a woman being in the same room as them right now. Maybe that would come, but people just seemed curious.
Maybe a bit too curious.
“Say, is that Sunshine?”
Your head turned as you noted someone speaking. “Hey, Hollywood.” You knew him; you’d met him before. He was the one who gave you your callsign way back when.
“Still full of life? You’re looking a little bit drained over there.”
“Not drained, a little-ah-feeling the pressure, that’s all.”
“Don’t be too nervous, none of these boys bite unless you ask.”
You snorted in response, a little smile forming on your lips. Your attention quickly shifted away from conversations to the man being introduced to the room. Viper, your instructor. He was an older man with a mustache above his upper lip. You’d heard of Viper before, but you had never seen him in person. You’d heard of a few of these guys, anyway.
You could spot Maverick pretty easily, especially since he drew attention to himself with just about everything that he did. With Maverick came his best friend, Goose. Across from him, you could recognize Iceman. You’d heard stories about Iceman. He was one of the most well-respected, talented pilots that you had ever heard of. What you hadn’t expected, however, was to be a bit baffled by how beautiful he was.
He had high cheekbones and soft-looking lips. He was chewing on a piece of gum, but that didn’t make his cocky little smile any less alluring. His hair was blond, and it looked like it would probably be soft if you touched it; his eyes were a piercing blue. You knew he got his callsign from his cool demeanor. There was ice in his veins when he was in the sky; he was difficult to crack under pressure.
His callsign was the opposite of yours.
Sunshine came from your personality more than anything. It was difficult to exhaust you. You were always bubbly and ready for a new day because you genuinely liked what you did. People were hard-pressed to find you glaring at someone or irritated about an early morning. Sunshine had come from an early morning training. Everyone else was exhausted, like there were grey clouds over their heads, but there you were, ready to go with a smile on your face. You were tired, but you were still happy to be there.
But why were you thinking about Iceman? He was good-looking, but that needed to be where that line of thinking ended.
Your focus turned back to Viper, listening intently as he spoke. He made one last comment before dismissing everyone, though, one that pertained directly to you.
“You boys may have noticed that we have a female aviator in our class for the first time. Make sure you give a warm welcome to Sunshine. She hasn’t been assigned an RiO since she’s never flown or trained for a combat mission before, so some of you may need to fill in. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Others may have gotten nervous being here for the first time, being surrounded by all of these men for the first time. But you were excited to catch up with some old friends and to introduce yourself. So you did. You talked to everyone whom you’d either met before or never had the chance to, and you were quickly invited out to a club that everyone was going to that night. Surely, this was more for the guys. Finding some nice girl to hook up with before class really started, relaxing before training took precedence. But it felt nice to be included, so you made sure that you were dressed and ready to go that evening.
You weren’t really sure what you were expecting when you showed up. Mainly, you just expected to have a drink or two and talk to the people with whom you were going to be in class. But you were a bit surprised to have someone approach you while you were still ordering, moving past you to pay for your drink without you having to say anything.
“Sunshine, is it?”
“Hi, Iceman.” You turned to face him, taking the seabreeze that you had purchased from the bar and taking a sip from it. “Thank you for this.”
“Oh, no problem. Hollywood says I’ll like you, so I’m testing that theory.” He spoke in a way that was calculated, like every single word that came out of his mouth needed to be measured in his brain before he could utter it. “I’m curious, though. You were picked pretty fast. Were you the reason they lifted the restrictions on women in combat?”
“The reason? I wouldn’t say that, necessarily.” To be fair, though, you didn’t know what went on behind the scenes. You knew that something had to have changed someone’s mind, but there was probably some political pressure to do it, too. “My Commander had been trying to get them to make an exception for me for a bit, but there was no way for that to be possible with the restrictions. The second he found out he had me on the first flight out to Miramar that he could find.”
“And why would he go through such an effort?”
“I’m a really good pilot.”
“I can imagine.” He reached past you to take the whiskey that he had been given from the bar. You knew he noticed the hitch in your breath when he got a bit too close, but your eyes followed his face regardless. “I’ve read up on some reports. You’re one of the best; you fit in easily at Top Gun because you’re just like the rest of us. Just… a little different.”
“A little, yeah. Just one small difference.”
There it was again. He had a really nice smile; it was distracting. You watched him while he took a sip of his drink, but you couldn’t get a read on him.
“Sunglasses inside is a choice.”
“I’ll take them off when I feel like it, probably once I finish this drink.”
Even with the glasses on, you could sense that there was something that he was picking up on. You smiled, though. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of your lips. “Sorry, I just-the glasses are really cool, it’s just-you wanna see mine? We can both do it.”
“What? Wear sunglasses inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds great.”
“Yay!” Your voice was quiet as you took another sip of your drink before setting it down. You reached into your pocket to pull out your own sunglasses. Everyone here seemed keen on Ray-Bans, and you were no exception. “There, now we’re both wearing sunglasses at night.”
It was… relatively unpleasant to wear sunglasses inside the club. But something about the way that you actually got him to laugh made it worth it.
“Hollywood was right, I do like you.”
“Aw, thanks. I like you too, man!”
The look on his face should have told you pretty quickly that you were in trouble. He was being friendly, but there was more to it than that. Even through the sunglasses, you should have known from that killer smile on his lips that he was flirting. Maybe you did know that he was flirting. Yet, you were pretty sure that you were flirting with him, too.
You’d spend most of the rest of the night with Iceman and, later, Slider. There were moments when other people were involved, just as there were moments when women were trying to shoot their shot with one of the aforementioned men. You’d come to realize that most of the people who came here were women looking to get with a military man or men in the military, and some of the men your age had, seemingly, considered coming up to you but got a bit intimidated by the company you were keeping.
Really, it should have been just that.
You were making friends, going out with the people you would be flying with for the next five weeks. You needed to know them and trust them, and that was all that it ever should have been. But it wasn’t.
The sun was bright in the morning, coming through the shades that had clearly not been closed the night before. You groaned and tried to cover your eyes with your arm as your body refused to adjust to the light. But your arm didn’t entirely belong to you. It seemed to be trapped by something. Or, more adequately, someone.
Your head jerked to the side the moment that you realized that there was someone beside you in bed. Your eyes were wide for a moment, despite how it hurt to be exposed to that much sun first thing in the morning. But you weren’t all too shocked to realize that it was Iceman. The memories of last night came back to you a bit slowly once you calmed down enough to actually think them through. You’d been around him for most of it, talking to him and his friends. You’d only had one drink each, so you weren’t really drunk at all when you decided that you were going to go back to his assignment instead of yours.
The memory of his lips on your neck made your stomach flutter in a way that was far too humiliating. But you remembered getting in bed with him. You remembered that he took his time. That you’d been grateful that you ended up in bed with him at all, considering the people you had to dodge and ditch just to get away with leaving without anyone noticing that you’d left together. You weren’t sure if the other guys would talk, but it was a risk that wasn’t worth taking.
You’d been too busy thinking to realize that he’d woken up, so you were a bit surprised when you felt his arm tighten around you rather than pulling away.
He should be pulling away, shouldn’t he?
“Regretting your decision yet?” He asked, his voice a bit raspier now than it was yesterday. You couldn’t stop the train of thought that filled your mind when you noticed that, though. You liked his morning voice, you liked waking up in his arms.
“I should be,” you responded, and perhaps you were being far too honest. But he had asked, hadn’t he? “But no, even though I should be.”
“Why should you be regretting it? Did I suck?”
“Pretty sure I sucked, if we’re going to be technical.”
He laughed at that, a sound that you remembered liking very much the night before. You weren’t shocked to realize that you liked it just as much when you woke up beside him in the morning. So you turned to face him, still within his arms but a bit closer than you had been before.
“I should definitely regret it. There’s… rules, you know? And, for sure, I’m gonna be under a microscope. My Commander sent me here because he believes in me, but I’m like a lab rat. It’s gonna look really bad if the first woman in Top Gun was sleeping her way through the ranks.”
“And she happened to choose the best pilot here, too.”
“Exactly.”
Despite your words, you let your body do what it pleased. That was how you ended up with your fingers brushing through his hair. You were right, it was soft when you touched it. But you didn’t mind that he kissed your wrist when you touched him, even if there was some part of you that kept telling you that you absolutely should mind something like that - it was soft, somewhat personal. That sort of thing probably shouldn’t be allowed in something that can’t last, or, more realistically, something that shouldn’t last.
“So you do regret it?”
“Hm… can you keep a secret?”
“Obviously.”
“Then no, I don’t regret it.”
“Knew it.”
You groaned when he rolled you over just to get on top of you. But then he was kissing you again, and then he was dragging you into the shower and telling you a story about something that had happened to him a bit before he left. It felt normal, like you hadn’t met the day before and like you should be doing something like this right now, even though you knew that you absolutely shouldn’t be if you knew what was best for you.
But it did feel normal. It really did. Even when he flicked soap at you for making a joke about how your callsigns being polar opposites meant that this was definitely supposed to happen. Maybe you would need to keep a secret, and maybe it was a terrible, awful idea to be doing this when so much was on the line for the future of women in naval aviation. But it didn’t feel like a terrible idea; for now, that’s all that matters.
Even, Over Dinner - Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x Reader One-Shot
❝ You’ve flown combat missions, Kazansky. You can handle a date. ❞
[tom kazansky x reader]
~12k words | rated: E
tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, soft vulnerability, emotionally tense intimacy, language
quiet tension. practiced restraint. one dinner date, and everything that follows.
notes: i proofread this on an 8 hour long plane ride so i'm sorry if its iffy lol. this was a request for my dear @valkilmher. hope you enjoy bestie <3
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Tom Kazansky adjusted his tie for the fourth time, watching himself in the bathroom mirror with a practiced eye. The knot was flawless. Sleek, symmetrical. The kind of tie you could hang your name on.
Still, he loosened it again. Smoothed the fabric. Started over.
He told himself it was just habit. Muscle memory. Precision was part of the job—it bled into everything. But even he knew that was only half true tonight.
Behind him, the apartment was quiet and still, its surfaces immaculate, every line sharp. A study in control. But there were tells. The tie he’d rejected first was slung across the arm of the couch. A second cologne bottle sat on the dresser, uncapped, like it had been considered and dismissed mid-thought. His bed was made, but one corner of the sheet had come untucked where he’d sat down too fast, stood up too soon.
Not chaos. Just… noise. Interference.
This couldn’t be nerves. He didn’t do nerves.
Except now, apparently, he did.
He checked the time. Early, but not so early he could afford another wardrobe change.
His reflection was still watching him—expression composed, jaw steady, eyes bright. On paper, he looked perfect. But there was something just beneath the surface. A charge in the air. A quiet tension in his spine. Not fear, exactly. Just a sharp kind of awareness.
Tonight meant something. And that was the problem.
It wasn’t about impressing you. You weren’t the kind of person who needed dazzling. You weren’t expecting some show. You’d said yes easily, casually, like it hadn’t even been a question. Like dinner with him was just a nice idea, not something to read into.
And somehow, that made it worse. Or perhaps—better.
He wasn’t used to this kind of feeling. This quiet, persistent pressure to get it right not because you expected perfection—but because he wanted to be good for you. Because the idea of making you smile and keeping you comfortable mattered more than he was ready to admit.
You were easy to talk to, a respite in his workday. Easy to laugh with. He liked the way you lit up at your own stories. The way you looked at him when he said something a little dry, a little offhanded, like you were still waiting to see if he was really kidding. You made everything feel lighter—more tolerable.
But tonight felt heavy in the best possible way. Like it could turn into something, if he didn’t screw it up.
He took a breath. One of those long, grounding breaths that started in his stomach and worked all the way to his chest. The kind of breath he took on the tarmac before stepping into the cockpit.
The kind that meant something was about to happen.
One last glance in the mirror.
Hair sharp. Tie straight. Posture exact.
Still, something in his chest fluttered—something he hadn’t felt in years.
You’ve flown combat missions, Kazansky. You can handle a date.
Right?
Your room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the record spinning in the corner. A mellow track hummed low from the speakers—something slow and steady, the kind of song you didn’t need to think about to feel. Late sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, painting the walls in warm amber and pooling across the carpet like warm honey.
You weren’t ready. Or maybe you were, and it just didn’t feel like it quite yet.
Your dress was already on. Simple, soft, something you didn’t have to tug or adjust. It felt like you—just a little dressed up, just a little more thoughtful than usual. Your hair was done the way you liked it, and your makeup was light, just enough to make your reflection smile back a little easier.
You weren’t going for impressive. You just wanted to feel… worth looking at.
Tom wasn’t flashy. He didn’t flirt like he needed to win. He didn’t fill the silence, didn’t chase the room, didn’t try to own it. He simply existed in a way that made you want to lean in. And when he asked you to dinner, it wasn’t bold or dramatic. Just direct. Quiet. Like he didn’t need to sell it. Like he hoped you’d say yes—but would survive if you didn’t.
You’d said yes before you even thought about it.
And now you were pacing slowly in your room, your fingertips tracing the edge of your vanity while the record kept spinning. It almost felt like something was about to begin. Not a fairytale. Not a firework show. Something real.
You sat at the edge of the bed and reached for your perfume. A small bottle with a fading label and a scent you’d loved since high school. You dabbed it at the base of your throat, then your wrist. Let it settle into your skin.
Then you just sat there a moment, your hands resting in your lap, watching the light crawl across the opposite wall.
You weren’t nervous. Not exactly. You’d been on dates. You’d worn this dress before. But tonight, you found yourself hoping he’d notice. Hoping he’d see you and that soft, unreadable look would flicker in his eyes—the one he got when he was really looking at something.
You weren’t used to wanting like this.
Not urgently. Not achingly.
Just… gently.
You checked the clock on your nightstand. Almost time.
You stood, pulled your cardigan off the chair, and stepped into your shoes—low heels, nothing loud. You glanced in the mirror, then back again. Not to fix anything. Just to see yourself.
There was a knock at your apartment door.
Your breath caught—not in panic, but in anticipation.
You reached for your bag. Smoothed your dress once more. And smiled.
Just dinner. Just him.
And maybe something more.
You opened the door.
Tom Kazansky was standing before you in the apartment’s outer hallway like he’d stepped out of a photograph—pressed and polished, almost impossibly still. His suit was sharp, classic, worn like second skin. His tie lay flat and perfect, no sign of adjustment. Jacket crisp. Collar clean. Shoulders squared like he belonged in a portrait.
But his eyes—his eyes gave him away.
They weren’t cold, or detached. They were focused—drawn to you in a way that wasn’t practiced. Not the kind of look he gave to charm. This was something else. Something searching. Like he was taking inventory, not of what you were wearing or how you looked, but of the way you smiled when you saw him. The way you stepped forward.
He blinked once. His jaw shifted slightly. A muscle in his cheek ticked—almost imperceptible.
And for half a second, you saw it: the hesitation behind all that polish.
“You look…” he started, then paused. Just a second too long.
It was barely noticeable. A hiccup in the rhythm. But from him, it meant everything.
“…perfect.”
The word landed softly. No punch of flirtation, no clever smirk behind it. Just a truth that had pushed itself to the surface.
You laughed gently, stepping out onto your doormat and locking the door behind you.
“Do you always start dates with flattery, or am I just special?”
That earned you something. Not a grin—he wasn’t grinning tonight. Not yet. But his lips tugged at the edges, like a smile was thinking about forming. Like it was waiting for permission.
“Depends who’s at the door,” he recovered, voice smooth, but softer than usual.
You walked with him to the car, your heels clicking lightly down the hallway, down the stairs, and against the sidewalk. The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it wasn’t comfortable yet either. It felt full. Too full. Pressurized. Like neither of you wanted to say the wrong thing, or worse—too much.
He moved to open the passenger door before you could reach for it.
You gave him a look.
“Really?” you teased. “You’re that kind of guy?”
“Every time,” he said, straight faced—but the gleam in his eye gave him away. “Sorry if that’s a dealbreaker.”
You slid into the car, smoothing your skirt and trying not to smile too much. When he shut the door, you watched him through the windshield as he rounded the hood. His pace was steady. Not rushed. But there was something deliberate about it. Like he was walking through a checklist in his head.
Open door. Say the right thing. Don’t blow this.
He slid into the driver’s seat beside you. The key turned in the ignition with a clean click, and the engine hummed to life beneath you both. His hands found the wheel naturally, fingers wrapping around the leather like they knew exactly where to settle.
But his right hand—his dominant one—hovered near the gearshift a second too long before resting on it.
You noticed.
So did he.
“You nervous?” you asked quietly, looking at him sideways.
He didn’t answer right away.
“I look nervous?” he asked, still facing the windshield.
“You don’t,” you admitted. “But you’re holding the gearshift like it’s going to punch back.”
He glanced down, flexed his fingers once, then let them relax.
Another beat of silence. Then—
“You make it hard to pretend I’m not,” he said.
His voice was lower this time. Not in volume—just in tone. Less polished. Less performative.
Honest.
You looked at him for a long moment. “Nervous, you mean? That’s good.”
That made him smile. A small one. But it reached his eyes—that rare, flickering kind of smile that didn’t come easy to a man like him. A smile that cost something. Or meant something.
You let your hand rest lightly on the edge of the center console—close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, even if there was still space between you.
He noticed, but didn’t move.
Instead, his voice came again—low, dry, maybe even a little vulnerable, “You act like you’re not grading me.”
You raised your eyebrows, amused. “Should I be?”
“I don’t know,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Feels like I already handed in the assignment. Just waiting to see if you liked it.”
That made you laugh—soft, surprised.
He turned the wheel with practiced ease, merging onto the main road. But his posture was still a little too straight, his jaw still a little too tense.
And underneath all of it, you could feel it—not nerves like stammering or sweating or cracking jokes.
This was Ice’s version. Controlled. Contained. But unmistakable.
He cared. He wanted this to go well.
And that tension—the effort he wasn’t used to feeling—sat in the air between you. Alive. Unspoken. Ready.
The restaurant sat tucked behind a row of hedges and dark wooden fencing, soft lighting glowing from inside like it was trying to keep its secrets warm. From the street, it barely announced itself. No neon. No music leaking through the doors. Just one gold-lettered name on the glass and a bell that chimed softly when Tom opened the door for you.
Inside, it was quiet—intimate in a way that didn’t feel staged. No loud clatter of dishes, no crowd noise bleeding into your space. Just low conversation, flickering candlelight, and the soft scrape of cutlery against china.
The hostess greeted them with a soft smile and a leather-bound reservation book perched neatly in front of her. She looked up from it as you approached, her eyes flicking once over Tom’s tailored jacket, then to you in your dress and heels.
“Reservation for two?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Tom replied, “Kazansky.”
She checked the book with a quick nod, then motioned with her hand. “Right this way.”
The dining room was dim, the overhead lights low and golden, made warmer by the tea candles flickering on each table. Everything was hushed—the quiet murmur of conversation, the distant clink of silverware, the gentle hum of a saxophone-heavy jazz record playing somewhere near the bar.
You walked side by side behind the hostess, your heels muted against the carpet. Tom’s hand hovered behind your lower back—he never touched you, but it was close. Protective. Present.
You were seated at a two-top booth tucked near the back. Not isolated, but private enough to feel like your own little pocket of the evening. The table was already set: two wine glasses, polished silverware, a single flickering candle in a short glass holder. A folded linen napkin sat across each plate.
“Your server will be right with you,” the hostess said, placed the menus on the table, then disappeared.
Tom waited until you sat, then slid into the seat across from you.
His jacket shifted as he leaned back. He didn’t remove it. The tie remained perfectly in place. But his shoulders seemed… less locked now. Like he’d passed the first checkpoint of the night.
“I like this,” you said, glancing around. “It’s quiet. Feels like a secret.”
Tom looked around, then back at you. “That’s why I picked it.”
“Not trying to impress me with a steakhouse and a bottle of overpriced Bordeaux?” you teased, unfolding your napkin.
He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching just slightly. “You’d prefer that?”
“No,” you said easily. “I’d wonder what you were compensating for.”
That earned you something—another flash of real amusement across his face. There and gone again. A glimpse of the man beneath the polish.
The waitress arrived moments later—mid-30s, red lipstick, a notepad already in hand and a half-practiced smile that softened when she saw Tom.
“Good evening,” she said. “Can I get you two started with drinks?”
Tom glanced at you first. Let you go ahead.
“I’ll do a gin and tonic,” you said.
“Tanqueray okay?” the waitress asked, already scribbling.
“Perfect.”
Tom looked at the drink menu once—not really reading it. Then he folded it and set it down. “Just a bourbon. Neat.”
“Any brand?”
“Whatever doesn’t come in a plastic bottle,” he said, deadpan.
The waitress grinned. “Got it. I’ll give you two a minute with the menus.”
As she walked away, you glanced at him. “Bourbon? I pegged you for more a whiskey sour guy. Something mildly more interesting.”
He gave you a look. “I don’t drink anything that comes with a garnish.”
“Of course not,” you said, smiling. “God forbid someone mistake you for approachable.”
That earned a soft chuckle, the kind he didn’t give away often.
The candlelight flickered between you. The mood had shifted—slightly, almost imperceptibly—but something had eased.
The waitress returned a few minutes later with the drinks. Your gin and tonic sparkled, beads of condensation already forming on the highball glass. His bourbon was poured into a low, square glass with thick sides.
He nodded his thanks, and she left again.
You picked up your drink. He picked up his.
“To?” you offered.
Tom looked at you for a long second, then lifted his glass. “To being off base and out of uniform.”
You tapped your glass against his, the soft clink sounding far louder in the cozy hush of the booth.
You sipped. So did he.
It hit warm, slow. Yours was crisp and botanical, cool against the back of your throat. His—he took it like he was testing it. Just enough to taste. And nodded like it passed.
When it came time to decide what to have for dinner you both looked, but it didn’t take long. You ordered grilled sea bass with rosemary potatoes and sautéed spinach. He ordered the steak—medium rare—no sides.
When the waitress left, the conversation started to breathe. A little lighter. A little more playful.
“You eat like a caveman,” you teased.
“You drink like someone who wants to forget something,” he countered, eyes warm now.
“Do I?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Gin’s a heavy choice. All that juniper.”
“And bourbon’s subtle?”
“No,” he admitted. “But it does the job.”
You leaned in slightly, your fingers tracing the stem of your glass. “And what job is that tonight?”
His gaze flicked up to meet yours. Still steady. Still calm. But under it—something real. Something felt.
“Trying not to screw this up.”
That silenced you for a moment—not because it was shocking, but because it was honest. Not dressed up. Not deflected.
“You’re doing fine,” you said, softer now.
“Fine doesn’t cut it,” he replied.
You blinked. His tone wasn’t sharp. Just simple. Matter of fact.
And before you could think too much about it, he followed it up:
“You make me nervous,” he said, voice low and certain. “That’s never happened before.”
You let the words settle. Felt them sink into the space between you.
And then you smiled.
“Good,” you said. “Then we’re even.”
The plates arrived like punctuation. Your sea bass was fragrant and perfect, the skin seared golden and crisp. His steak was a clean, unapologetic cut—perfectly pink, with no sides, just a little garnish of a mixed salad and a small dish of coarse salt, both on the side.
Tom picked up his knife and fork, cut into the steak like he’d done it a hundred times with the same quiet efficiency he used for everything. Still, his eyes lifted as you took your first bite, like he needed to see your reaction before he could fully relax.
You hummed softly through your smile. “Okay. This place is officially a good call.”
He didn’t quite grin. Just nodded once, like the approval mattered more than he’d let on.
Conversation trickled back in with each bite. The nerves that had bracketed the evening began to fade—replaced by a warm, easy rhythm that surprised you both.
He asked about your job, and listened like he meant it. You told him about the hellish day last week, about the coworker who kept using the wrong file format and made you restart a project from scratch.
“You don’t strike me as someone who loses patience easily,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve never seen me swear at a printer.”
He laughed under his breath. “You ever throw anything?”
“Once. At a wall.”
“What was it?”
You looked at him across the candlelight, smiling. “A stapler.”
Tom raised his glass in mock salute. “Respect.”
You took another sip, feeling the gin buzz warm through your veins.
And then he started talking.
Not all at once. Not in some monologue. But slowly, in pieces. Droplets of himself placed carefully between bites and long glances across the table.
He told you about growing up near a naval base—how his house always smelled like his mom’s old perfume and a hint of jet fuel. How the first time he got in the cockpit, he didn’t speak for three hours afterward. How flying wasn’t about speed or power—it was about the special kind of quiet that came with it. The kind he couldn’t find anywhere else.
You listened.
He didn’t embellish. Didn’t show off. Just told you the truth in his voice—deep and steady, with the occasional pause like he wasn’t quite sure how much of it to give away.
“I used to think,” he said, pausing for a drink, “that the way people talked about love sounded a lot like what it feels like to fly.”
You blinked. Caught off-guard by how gently it landed.
He looked down at his plate then, cutting another piece of steak. “But flying doesn’t make you vulnerable.”
He looked back up after a moment—and you were already watching him.
And then—carefully, deliberately—you shifted, and your leg brushed against his under the table.
Neither of you moved.
If anything, he leaned into it.
It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t an invitation. Just…a confirmation. That you were both here, in this moment, no longer circling.
Your foot nudged his lightly. He didn’t flinch. Just let it happen.
He looked down at his glass, ran a thumb along the rim.
“This is going better than I thought,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “That a good thing?”
“It is,” he said. Then, with the faintest edge of humor: “I just don’t know what to do with it.”
You laughed, and it broke something open between you—eased the last of the tension, let the warmth rise in its place.
When the waitress returned to ask about dessert, Tom didn’t even glance at the menu she’d set on the table. Just looked to you.
“Split something?” he asked.
“Chocolate mousse,” you said immediately after glancing briefly at the dessert menu.
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t hesitate.”
“I know what I want.”
Those five words seemed to hold more weight than just desserts.
She returned a few minutes later with two spoons and a single glass bowl—whipped mousse with a dusting of cocoa and a small curl of dark chocolate on top.
You scooped a spoonful and took the first bite. Closed your eyes for effect. “Perfect.”
Tom didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a moment before taking his own bite.
It wasn’t quite sensual and it wasn’t flirty either.
But it was intimate.
The air had shifted. Grown heavier in a pleasant way. The kind of heaviness that meant everything was headed somewhere else now. Slowly. Inevitably.
His hand brushed yours as you reached for your spoons at the same time, and this time, he didn’t pull back.
You looked up.
He was already looking at you.
Not smiling. Not speaking.
Just… there.
The check came not long after. He paid for it without asking. And when you reached for your purse—more out of formality than anything else—he gave you a look that shut it down instantly.
You followed him out into the night. The air was cooler now, soft wind trailing across your shoulders. Tom stepped ahead and held the door open for you. When you passed him, your hand grazed his.
This time, he did reach for it.
Just for a moment.
But long enough to make it clear—this wasn’t ending yet.
The sky had deepened to a thick, velvet blue by the time you stepped out of the restaurant. The sidewalk gleamed faintly beneath the glow of streetlamps, still damp from the morning’s forgotten rain. You could hear the dull hum of passing traffic, but it felt far away—like the world had narrowed to the few feet between you and Tom.
He opened the door for you again. Still effortless. Still instinct.
When you stepped past him this time, his hand brushed the small of your back. Just a whisper of contact. Not clearly intentional, but not necessarily accidental either. You didn’t flinch. Neither did he.
He shut the door behind you, rounding the hood of the car at a slower pace than earlier. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he didn’t say anything. Just settled in. Buckled his seatbelt. Hands resting lightly on the wheel.
But he didn’t start the car.
Not right away.
Instead, he stared straight ahead, his body still, his breath shallow. The keys sat idle in his hand, silver catching the light of the nearest streetlamp.
You watched him.
The sharp crease between his brows. The tension ghosting through his shoulders. He was thinking too hard. Holding something back. You recognized it now—restraint worn thin.
“Are you okay?” you asked gently.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
Still, the keys didn’t move.
“Tom,” you said.
He turned his head toward you. The name pulled him like a magnet; you didn’t usually call him that. His eyes met yours, and in that flicker, something unspoken cracked just a little.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“What thing?”
“Being too careful.”
He looked down at the key in his hand, then back out the windshield. A beat passed. Then another.
“I really don’t want to rush anything,” he said.
“You’re not. Not at all.”
He let out a breath—a deep, low exhale that seemed to loosen something under the surface.
“I don’t want to screw it up.”
You leaned in slightly, elbow brushing the console. “You haven’t. And you won’t.”
For a long second, that sat between you. No rush. No pressure.
Then he finally turned the key.
The engine rumbled softly to life. The dashboard glowed in amber and red, casting light across his features. He adjusted the mirrors, turned on the headlights, and pulled out with practiced ease—hands steady, movements clean.
The tension hadn’t vanished. It had just shifted. Narrowed. Focused, maybe.
You settled back into your seat, letting your leg shift toward him.
He didn’t move away.
His right hand dropped from the wheel to rest palm-up on the center console, close to yours—but not touching.
An invitation.
You looked at it for a moment.
Then slid your fingers slowly into his.
His thumb twitched against yours. His fingers closed. Not tight—just firm enough to feel like a choice.
The road passed under you in smooth rhythm—streetlamps flaring and fading like breath. The inside of the car smelled faintly like him: clean cologne, a trace of bourbon now, and something sharper you couldn’t place.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then, without warning, his voice cut into the hush.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t defensive.
Just quiet. Like a man trying not to fall too hard into something he couldn’t unfeel.
You turned to him. Watched the way the passing lights painted golden stripes across his jaw, the faint pulse of tension in his neck.
And you didn’t hesitate.
“But it does,” you said.
He didn’t look at you. But his grip on your hand tightened—not by much, just enough to say everything he wasn’t putting into words.
He didn’t let go.
And he didn’t say anything else.
Just kept driving—with one hand on the wheel, and the other in yours.
When he pulled up in front of your building, he let the car idle for a moment. His hand slipped away only so he could put it in park. Then the silence settled again—different now, deeper.
You undid your seatbelt slowly, the click impossibly loud.
Then turned to face him.
“Come upstairs.”
He didn’t ask if you were sure.
He didn’t offer some half-hearted joke to deflect the weight of it.
He just turned his head. Met your eyes.
And nodded.
Then he killed the engine.
The headlights clicked off. The cabin fell into stillness. And when you opened the door, stepping into the quiet night, you didn’t have to look back to know he was already following.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
Your key slid into the lock with a soft metallic click, and the door swung open into the hush of your apartment. No lights yet. Just the spill of a streetlamp through a window, casting long shadows over the floorboards.
Tom stepped in behind you without a word, letting the door shut softly at his back. He didn’t move fast. Didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, looking at you in the dark like he was giving you every second to change your mind.
You turned slowly to face him, your back to the door. The air was thick between you—warm from everything unsaid, everything barely touched.
“I don’t usually…” you started, then trailed off.
He didn’t fill the silence. He waited.
You wet your lips. “I don’t bring people up like this.”
Tom nodded once. Quiet. Not surprised. Just… listening.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said.
You looked down. Smoothed your fingers along the side seams of your dress.
“I just didn’t want you to think this was casual.”
“I don’t,” he said. Instantly. Without hesitation.
You looked up at him.
“It doesn’t feel casual,” he added, voice lower now. “It feels… like you.”
You took in a shaky breath.
Then, quietly: “You can touch me.”
That was all it took.
He raised his hand—slowly, like you were made of glass—and cupped your face, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone. His palm was warm. Steady. His other hand came to your waist, anchoring there like it had always belonged.
You leaned into his touch, and he kissed you.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed.
It was deliberate.
The kind of kiss that unfolded like a sentence. Word by word. Breath by breath.
Your lips parted on instinct, and his deepened the kiss slowly, tongue tasting yours with the same care he used to test the wind before flying. Every movement deliberate. Intentional. He was learning you—and letting you learn him back.
You moved together, step by unsteady step, until your back hit the inside of the door with a soft thud. His body followed—close, but not crushing. One arm braced beside your head, the other still at your waist.
You fumbled lightly with the lapel of his jacket, fingers tracing the seam as you slid your hands up to his shoulders. The fabric was smooth. Starched. Still holding the warmth of his body.
His lips moved to your jaw—slow, almost reverent—and then down to your throat, where he paused.
He didn’t rush. He let you feel the press of his mouth against your skin, the soft scrape of his breath, the care in every motion.
You gasped—quiet, involuntary—and your hands clutched at his lapel.
He pulled back instantly.
His eyes were wide. Alert. Reading you.
“Too much?”
“No,” you said, breathless. “No. It’s just—”
You swallowed, laughed a little, eyes dropping for a second.
“I swear, I don’t usually go this far on the first date.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t mock.
He just looked at you like he’d heard that confession in his bones.
“I’m not—” You shook your head, eyes flicking back to his. “I’m not this easy.”
His hand moved from your waist to the side of your neck—fingertips brushing along the edge of your jaw.
“I don’t think you are,” he said. Quiet. Certain.
And something in you melted at that.
Because he meant it.
Because he wasn’t here because it was easy. He was here because it was you.
He kissed you again—softer this time, lips just barely brushing yours before he deepened it slowly, carefully. Your arms slipped around his waist beneath the jacket, fingers finding the hem of his shirt tucked neatly into his slacks.
You whispered against his mouth, “Do you want to stay?”
He didn’t answer out loud.
He didn’t need to.
His lips were still on yours when your hands slipped beneath the lapels of his jacket. He stilled, just slightly—not because he was resisting, but because he was checking in. Even now, even with your mouth on his and your body angled toward him, he was waiting for your signal.
You tugged gently.
“Can I take this off?” you asked against his jaw.
His answer was breath, not words—but he nodded.
You slid the jacket back over his shoulders. It came off smoothly, the fabric cool beneath your palms. He caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of a nearby chair without looking away from you.
“I don’t want to push,” he said quietly.
“You’re not.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you like he needed to hear it again.
“I want to,” you said, softer now. “But only if you do too.”
He let out a breath through his nose and stepped closer, hands framing your face with an almost unbearable gentleness.
“I’ve wanted to since the second you opened the door.”
You kissed him now—slower, deeper—and your hands found the knot of his tie. He let you pull it loose. One slow tug. The silk slid through his collar with a soft whisper, and he didn’t break the kiss as you laid it aside.
When your fingers moved to the first button of his shirt, he caught your wrists gently.
“I’m okay,” you whispered, barely audible. “I promise.”
He held your gaze for a long second, then let go.
You undid the buttons one by one, his chest slowly revealed in narrow glimpses—smooth skin, lean muscle, the curve of his collarbone. Your fingers hesitated at his belt, but he didn’t press.
Instead, his hands moved to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He waited again.
You nodded.
He pulled it down slowly. The fabric loosened against your frame, the air kissing your skin as it slipped from your shoulders and down your arms. You let it fall, stepped out of it.
Tom took a slow breath. He didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on your face like that was the part of you he wanted to remember first.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply.
You took his hand and started backing down the hallway—toward your bedroom, bare feet quiet against the floor.
He followed, letting you lead, his shirt still hanging open, the sleeves loose at his elbows.
Halfway down the hall, you stopped and kissed him again. This time, you pressed into him fully, your fingers sinking into his hair, and he responded with a low, muffled sound that lit something in your core.
“This is okay?” you asked. You already knew the answer. But it felt right to ask again.
“This is more than okay.”
But still waiting for your next move.
You crossed into your bedroom first, the floor cool against your bare feet. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the ambient spill of light from the hallway. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a thin silver ribbon of moonlight across the bed.
Tom followed behind, quieter than ever.
He stopped in the doorway for a moment. Like he was taking it in—not the room, but the fact of it. The shift. The invitation.
You turned toward him slowly. You were in nothing but your underwear: simple, matching, a soft fabric that still clung in all the places that counted. You didn’t cross your arms. You didn’t cover up. But your breath was a little shallow.
He noticed.
His hands, still resting lightly at his sides, flexed.
But he didn’t move until you stepped closer and reached for his shirt.
It was already unbuttoned, the fabric hanging open over his chest. You laid your palms flat against the skin there—warm, smooth, solid. He exhaled, the muscles under your hands tightening slightly.
“You’re still wearing too much,” you whispered.
His voice was low, roughened by restraint. “You want to fix that?”
You nodded.
You pushed the shirt from his shoulders slowly, letting your fingertips trace the dip of his collarbone, the slope of his arms. The fabric slid down and fell to the floor. You moved to his belt next. Your fingers hesitated just slightly.
He stilled.
Not because he didn’t want it—God, no. But because he was waiting again. Always waiting.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice soft now. “Only if you want this.”
“I do.”
He watched your hands as you unbuckled the belt, your knuckles brushing the flat of his stomach. You undid the button of his slacks next, then the zipper—slow, careful, deliberate.
He helped—just a little—by easing them down, stepping out of them once they pooled at his feet. His shoes were gone by now—somewhere between the hallway and here. Socks too. He stood in nothing but black boxer briefs, and the tension between you spiked in the best way.
You reached out, fingertips ghosting across the waistband.
His voice came again, low and serious: “Let me take my time with you.”
You nodded, breath catching.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again—this time with more pressure, more heat. His hands cupped the back of your thighs as he walked you back, step by slow step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
He sat you down gently.
Then knelt.
Right there.
Both hands slid up your legs, from your calves to your knees, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin. He kissed the inside of your thigh, just once, through the fabric of your underwear. Then looked up at you.
“Still good?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
He hooked his fingers under the waistband and pulled them down slowly, like it mattered to him not to miss a second of it. He helped you lift your hips, never breaking eye contact as he eased them all the way off.
You were half-naked now. Fully exposed. But you didn’t feel bare.
You felt wanted.
When he stood again, you reached for the clasp of your bra. Fumbled.
“Here,” he said, brushing your hands away gently. “Let me.”
He undid it with one hand. You didn’t ask how. And then you were fully undressed—nothing between you but breath and skin and everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.
His briefs were the last thing left.
You looked up at him, your voice a whisper. “Take them off.”
He did. Slowly. With the same reverence he’d shown you. And when he stood fully bare in front of you, you reached for him—not because he needed the invitation, but because you wanted the contact.
Your palms met his skin, warm and solid. His arms circled your waist, and he drew you up, against him, chest to chest.
You felt everything.
And for a moment, you just stood like that.
Breathing. Pressed close. Choosing.
The sheets were cool against your back as he finally laid you down—slowly, gently, like he was worried the moment might break if he moved too fast.
He hovered over you for a second. Just looked at you.
Not just your body—at you. Eyes searching, breath already uneven, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together.
You reached up and slid your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to pull him down for another kiss.
This one was messier. Warmer. His mouth opened against yours with more heat than before, his tongue sweeping slow and sure, like he was memorizing you from the inside out.
When he kissed down your throat, you felt his breath stutter against your skin. Like it was costing him something not to give in completely.
He pressed a kiss just below your jaw. Another on the hollow of your throat. Then a third, lower, near the curve of your shoulder.
And then he paused.
His lips barely touching your skin. His breath warm.
“You don’t mind if I…?” he murmured, voice thick with want.
Your hand found the nape of his neck. Fingers curled in his hair.
“Please.”
That single word cracked something open in him.
He groaned, low and quiet, and kissed your shoulder—really kissed it—then opened his mouth slightly and bit down. Not hard. Just enough to sting. Just enough to claim.
Your back arched.
He soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved lower.
Your collarbone. The top of your breast. The swell of it.
He took his time.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said softly, in between kisses.
Each one deeper. Slower. Leaving a faint mark—something you’d find in the mirror later and remember exactly how it felt.
His mouth moved over your chest, worshipful. When he circled your nipple with his tongue, you gasped. When he closed his lips around it and sucked, you moaned.
He didn’t stop.
He kissed down your ribs, your stomach, the dip of your hip.
Your fingers trembled in his hair. He looked up once, made eye contact—and the look in his eyes devastated you.
Hunger. Restraint. Awe.
As if he couldn’t believe he had you like this.
He came back up your body, mouth hot and damp, his skin brushing yours as he climbed.
When he reached your face again, you kissed him like you needed to anchor yourself—arms around his neck, your body pressing up into his like you couldn’t get close enough.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against your mouth.
You kissed him again—slow, deep, anchoring yourself in the heat of him, in the steadiness of his hands, in the way his body trembled ever so slightly above yours.
“You,” you breathed. “I want you.”
That made him exhale hard through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours. For a moment, he didn’t move—just held you there, close, like he was afraid the whole night might vanish if he let go.
“Say it again,” he said quietly.
“I want you.”
“Fuck.”
He kissed you again—harder this time, more need than control now—and you felt him press against you, thick and hot and aching. You moaned softly against his lips, shifting your hips into his, and he nearly choked on the sound it pulled from him.
“I need to—” he said, already pulling back just slightly, reaching over the edge of the bed where his pants lay tangled on the floor. He dug into the pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open with a practiced flick of his thumb.
Foil glint. Soft rip. Controlled breath.
You watched his hands—steady, careful—as he slid the condom on. And you could feel it in your chest, that thick ache of want building even harder now. This wasn’t rushed. This wasn’t careless.
This was him choosing you.
When he looked up again, the tension in his face was tighter—jaw clenched, brow drawn, lips parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
He came back to you slowly, crawling over your body, bracing himself above you.
“This still okay?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.
“Please,” you whispered. “I want to feel all of you.”
His breath hitched.
That word—please—wrecked something in him.
He pressed his forehead to yours, lips brushing your cheek, his voice rough and reverent.
“God, baby… you have no idea what that does to me.”
And then he shifted—just slightly. You felt it in the way his weight settled between your thighs, the way his body aligned against yours with more intent now.
Still careful.
Still gentle.
But no longer tentative.
“This still okay?” he murmured, even as his cock slid through your slick folds, nudging at your entrance.
You nodded, breathless. “Yes. I want you.”
He groaned—low and unfiltered—and kissed you once, slow and deep, before lining himself up and starting to push in.
The sudden stretch made you gasp.
He caught your jaw gently with one hand, his thumb stroking along your cheek as he moved deeper—inch by slow inch.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good. So damn tight—fuck. You feel unreal.”
You clutched at his arms, nails digging in, and he stilled once he was fully seated inside you. His breath caught at the base of his throat.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, almost laughing—but breathless. Shaken. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”
Your heart thudded at that—at the way it sounded not like a compliment but a truth he believed too deeply.
“You do,” you whispered. “You do, Ice.”
He looked down at you like he didn’t know what to do with that—like it mattered more than anything else tonight. Part of him knew that nickname would never be the same.
Then—finally—he started to move.
Slow. Deep. Measured.
He kissed your neck as his hips rolled, then murmured against your skin: “Every inch, baby. You’re taking all of me. Just like that.”
You moaned, and that’s when it happened—that flicker of a grin, the shift in his tone, that unmistakable hint of Ice in his element.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You like that. Thought you might.”
He thrust again—deeper this time, slower—and when your mouth dropped open, he caught your lip between his teeth and growled softly, “Knew you’d feel this good. Knew you’d be perfect.”
His praise didn’t stop.
“So goddamn warm. So wet for me. I could stay inside you all night.”
Another roll of his hips. Another moan from your throat.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Shaking already. And I’ve barely even started.”
But even as the swagger crept in, the care never left.
His eyes were still on yours.
His hand still cradled your cheek.
He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, sweeter—like a promise beneath all the filth.
“You still okay?” he asked softly, brushing your hair back.
You nodded, breathless. “You’re perfect.”
That did him in.
He smiled—wrecked and awed—and muttered, “lucky bastard,” to himself before sinking back into you with a low groan that felt like it came from the deepest part of him.
His rhythm deepened, hips rolling in long, slow strokes that dragged a low sound from your throat every time he bottomed out. He grunted softly with each push forward, his jaw tight, his breath hot against your ear.
“God, baby… You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, voice breaking on the words. “You don’t even know.”
You couldn’t speak—not when he was moving like that, filling you completely, your body trembling with every deep, deliberate thrust. You could only hold on—arms locked around his shoulders, fingers curled into the muscle at the top of his back.
But he was still watching. Still reading every sound you made.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your cheek. “Making me work for it.”
You arched into him, your body chasing the next thrust before he gave it.
And he laughed—low and rough, the sound laced with disbelief and heat.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?”
Your breath caught. “What?”
He thrust hard and fast—just once—and you gasped, body shuddering beneath him.
“You heard me.” His mouth was at your ear now, his voice a teasing growl. “Dangerous. Should’ve known the second you opened that door.”
You laughed through a moan, barely able to keep up with the way he moved now—deeper, harder, faster, but still controlled. Still holding you like you were precious.
He kissed the underside of your jaw, then your mouth. “Wrecking me and you’re not even trying.”
“Ice—”
“You gonna come for me, baby?” he asked, voice full of heat and reverence. “Let me feel you lose it all over me?”
You could feel it building already—fast and hot, curling low in your stomach, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.
He felt it, too.
“C’mon,” he whispered, his thumb finding your clit, stroking in tight, perfect circles. “Give it to me. Want you to fall apart for me, just like that.”
You gasped—one hand fisting at the sheets, the other clutching at his shoulder as your body started to shake.
“That’s it,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “That’s my girl.”
The orgasm hit fast, your whole body locking around him, back arching off the bed. You cried out, breath caught on his name, and he kept moving—kept whispering to you, grounding you through it.
Your walls pulsed around him, and he cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering for the first time.
“Shit—gonna come—”
You pulled him down to you, wrapped him in your arms, your legs tight around his waist.
“Do it,” you whispered against his skin. “Come inside me. I want it.”
That broke him.
With a low, raw groan, he buried himself deep and came hard, body locked above you, chest heaving, hands trembling where they gripped the sheets. You felt every pulse of him, every shudder, every breathless whisper of your name as he gave himself to you completely.
He stayed like that for a long moment—his body heavy, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to yours.
“You okay?” he finally asked, voice worn thin with emotion.
You smiled. “More than okay.”
He exhaled a quiet laugh and kissed you again—this time soft, slow, reverent.
“Dangerous,” he murmured against your lips. “Completely fucking dangerous.”
He hadn’t moved.
Not really.
His chest was still pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t ready to let you go. His face was tucked into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin, steady but ragged.
Your fingers stroked through the short hair at the base of his neck, slow and soothing. You could feel the aftershocks still humming through him.
Eventually, he shifted just enough to kiss your jaw. Then your cheek.
Then your mouth—soft and slow, not asking for anything. Just being with you.
He pulled back slightly to look at you. His hair was a mess. His lips were swollen. His eyes were still glassy, pupils blown wide.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the quiet between you.
You nodded. Smiled, even.
“I’m kind of wrecked.”
He huffed a soft, half-laugh and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Same.”
You stayed like that for a moment—warm skin against warm skin, your legs still loosely tangled, the air still carrying the smell of sweat and sex and something sweeter underneath.
Eventually, he pulled out with slow care, kissed your shoulder again, and got up just long enough to take care of the condom, grabbing a towel from your bathroom without asking where it was. He moved quietly. Efficiently. Still himself.
He returned a moment later, sliding back into bed beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You both lay there for a few seconds, eyes on the ceiling.
Then—
“I can’t believe we just did that,” you said.
He turned his head toward you.
“You regretting it already?” he asked, quiet. Not joking. Just honest.
You looked at him—hair mussed, still flushed from what you’d just shared, those damn eyes fixed on you like you were still the only thing in the room.
“No,” you said. “Not even a little.”
That landed. You could see it in the way he exhaled. The way his arm moved to pull you in, tucking you against his side like you belonged there.
“I don’t usually do this,” you murmured into his chest. “Not like this. Not the first night.”
His fingers moved through your hair, slow and steady. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”
You smiled against his skin. “Why’s that?”
“Because if you did… no one would ever shut up about you.”
You laughed—soft and surprised—and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
You both went quiet again.
But this time, it was heavier.
Not bad. Just… honest.
You shifted slightly, looked up at him.
“So… what now?”
He looked down at you. Met your eyes without flinching.
Summary: Worried he would make fun of your southern accent, you don't respond to Iceman’s advances, but he doesn't quit that easily.
Tags: fluff
Words: 1,546
A/N: Iceman chasing someone against his usual approach yay! Hope you like it!
Being sent to Top Gun was very much something to be proud of—unlike your accent, you thought. Once you spoke a couple of words to someone, they could tell immediately you were from the south. Back at home, nobody was bothered by it, but when you moved to California, that was vastly different.
Suddenly everyone seemed to be put off by your thick accent that wouldn't go away, no matter how hard you tried to adopt Californian speech. In your case, it only merged into some weird mix of both. The only solution was to stick to your own accent and not speak more than necessary around unfamiliar people.
You continued living by that in Miramar as well. Among all those aviators with—in a way rightfully—big egos you would work with for the next three months, you didn’t want to embarrass yourself. Of course you weren’t here to make friends and there could only be one whose picture would be on the wall while not everyone even graduated. Still, you would have liked not to be held back from having conversations outside of instruction. You weren’t necessarily a shy person, but you didn't want to be laughed at for your way of talking. What mattered was that you were deemed good enough at what you were doing to be accepted into this program.
From the first day, you noticed one man staring at you the whole time from the row behind you. You didn’t let yourself be bothered by it, despite admitting that there were less attractive men in this class. He had short blonde hair with bleached tips and green eyes that could stare into your soul if you looked into them for more than a second. The constant twirling of the pen between his fingers both annoyed you and subconsciously drew your eyes to his hands, a slip you quickly fixed by turning back around in your chair to look at the blackboard.
When you packed up after the last lesson and stood up, he blocked your way, standing almost too close to you. “Hey,” he said and you just nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m Ice, what’s your name?”
You pointed at the embroidered name tag on your shirt and he smiled. “You don’t talk much, do you?” he asked, sitting on the edge of your desk.
“No,” you simply replied and took the chance of a free aisle to leave the room.
The worst thing was you would have liked to talk with him, but based on his tough guy behavior he had proudly shown off this week, you couldn’t be sure he wanted a serious friendly conversation and neither could you be sure he wouldn’t make fun of your accent if he heard it. Better be safe than sorry, even if safe possibly meant passing up on a date with the self-proclaimed best pilot of the class.
To your surprise, Iceman didn’t give up in the following days, attempting to catch you in the hallway for a quick chat prompted by things as trivial as him liking your pen and asking for the brand name. Also to your surprise, you persisted and always found a way out of the situation without speaking or only giving very short answers.
Maybe he was consoled by the fact that he was not the only one you avoided talking to as you only spoke during practice flights and when you had to answer a question—or had a question yourself—during instruction. You didn’t pay much attention to the other guys’ reaction except for low murmuring in some corners that might have just been regarding the topic, but you couldn’t play the mute pilot forever in situations when you had to talk. That didn’t mean you would start being more communicative privately, though.
After actually hearing your voice for the first time, Iceman brought the big guns in. Secretly, he found your accent kind of cute and not at all as big of a deal as you made it out to be. He had to get you to talk to him somehow. The next level was straight-up flirting with you. Professionalism was out the window all of a sudden, even if he kept it subtle in the classroom. On the volleyball court or in the corridors, however, he was more direct.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go to the club with me tonight?” he asked, sounding genuine and smiling with his arms crossed. “Most of the others are coming too and I like going with someone to these things.”
Frankly, you felt bad for rejecting him as you would have loved to accept the invitation, but you still didn’t know if it was a trophy chase like you had heard about Maverick betting with Goose that he would hook up with a woman he saw at the bar. So you resorted to shaking your head with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry,” you said and walked around him to go to your apartment.
You were the first person who left Iceman seriously frustrated and who didn't engage in his flirting at all. Sure, there had been people who already had a boyfriend or were not into men, but they had at least responded properly and it didn't affect him much. However, there was something intriguing about you that wouldn't let you get out of his head.
He couldn't need any distractions right now while working to get that certificate and have his photo hung up on the wall. The training was tough, everyone knew that by now, and there was no time or reason for him to come up with a new tactic to get a date when he wasn't sure if you would ever give in. Yet he often found himself sitting behind you during instruction and trying to figure you to no avail.
Normally, he didn't chase after people over an extended period of time. For one night maybe, but never over days or weeks like it was the case with you. It was always vice versa, so there was no need for him to come begging on his knees.
There's always a first time.
He was embarrassed to stoop so low as to visit someone at their place without knowing if they even wanted something from him. It made him feel like a desperate ex-boyfriend in a Doris Day movie. Still, he was on his way to your apartment. He only hoped nobody he knew would see him, especially if the walk of shame came after a couple of minutes when he would be turned down rather than an hour later, which would obviously be better for his reputation.
Standing in front of your door, he repeated in his head what he wanted to say. It would be extra humiliating if you rejected him now when it wasn't spontaneous flirting out of boredom in between classes but a planned evening walk to your apartment just to talk to you and hopefully ask you out.
When he was completely sure what he wanted to tell you, he raised his hand to knock on the door. As cool and nonchalant as he usually was, he was a little nervous now. He was leaning against the doorframe because standing still felt too much like a sales representative to him. He waited for a few minutes and just when he almost lost hope that you would come out at all, the door opened. Almost as if he was more surprised to see you than you were to see him, he turned to look at you with wide eyes before grinning.
A smile formed on your face and you crossed your arms, curious to know why he was here. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you, but I really wanted to talk to you and I figured this would be a place where you couldn’t run away from me,” he explained with a light chuckle. “And I like your accent, if that’s why you never reply when I try to chat you up.”
This addition turned your skeptical frown into a relieved smile. “Y’know I could slam the door even if I can’t run away from you?” you joked.
Iceman’s eyes lit up at this longer answer than he was used to from you. It felt like he found a bucket of water in the desert. “That is true, but I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
You tilted your head, taking a small step forward. “Shouldn’t you be at the club?”
“I told you I prefer going with someone to parties over going alone,” he reminded you. “But if you’ve changed your mind, we can gladly go to the club.”
“Yeah?” You were surprised that he hadn’t gone with somebody else instead and that he still offered to let you come with him if you did want to now.
He nodded excitedly and your smile mirrored his. “Just let me change into something else, I’ll be right back.”
Before he could leave a cocky remark, you closed the door as he stood with his hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for you to return. It had taken a while, but now he was finally about to go out with you and he felt like a schoolboy before seeing his prom date.
tom kazansky says his favorite drink is vodka on the rocks, but in reality it’s a dirty root-beer float. With extra cream and never without the cherry.
pov: going through flight school while hiding your marriage with thomas 'iceman' kazansky
you're high school sweethearts, getting together at sixteen and eighteen, bonding over a love of flying, and dreams of being a pilot
it had been hard to make the long distance work when tom went off to flight school while you were in your senior year, but it all became worth it when you got your acceptance letter
you had a shotgun wedding after you graduate, and everyone assumed it was because you were pregnant - actually, you just knew you were going into a dangerous line of work, and wanted to be married
he's never once tried to talk you out of your dream, though he does worry
and initially, you had to tell him off for going too easy on you in drills
with tom being two years ahead, you agreed to keep the marriage quiet - it wouldn't do for anyone to think you weren't here entirely of your own merit
so, the two of you buy a tiny little cottage on the outskirts of town, and make various excuses to not hang out with the rest of the pilots
everyone assumes ice is lowkey a little bit of a manwhore, given all the attention he gets when you're all out (you'd be lying if you said it didn't bother you a little. but ice's hand sneaking onto your thigh under the table makes you feel a little better)
much to his dismay, maverick is the first one to figure it out - he spots the glances and touches that everyone else misses
by the time everyone else figures it out, you and ice are already near-legendary for your partnership, and no one's brave enough to try and split you up
Words: 578
Summary: When Tom comes back to his off base housing, he's met with an unusually quiet house and only his girlfriend inside.
Note(s)/Warning(s): Death of a pet (a cat) is what this fic is about, so please be warned. Takes place either during Top Gun (1986) or in the yearish after. I had to go with my grandma today to the vet to put down her cat and it really never gets easier losing a pet and made me wish I could just have someone to hold me and not let go until I said so. So really this fic is wish fulfillment and self indulgent to the max.
Masterlist | Support Me!
Tom's brows furrow as he reaches the front door, turning the knob, expecting it to be locked as it usually is, only for it to swing open.
Stepping inside, his worry grows when he's hear how quiet it is. His fingers quickly moving to shut and lock the door before bending at the waist to untie and take his boots off. It's only habits and routine that has him putting his keys, wallet, and sunglasses away.
His feet leading him to the living room and his heart stops when he sees his girlfriend, arms crossed over her chest, breath hitching and eyes swollen from crying.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"Tom."
The sound of his name in near sob has him flying over to her, hands hovering around her. "What's going on?"
Her bottom lip trembles, "It's uh, I had to take Lav to the vet."
His eyes move to the couch, where Lav should be curled up, soaking in the sun, if she doesn't get up to curl around his legs as he tries to take his boots off, but she isn't there and she wasn't there to greet him at the door.
His arms wrap around her, pulling her into him, lips pressing against her head as she buries her face into him. "She wouldn't get up this morning so I took her and," she sobs. "She's gone, Tom, she's gone."
"Oh, baby." He breathes, his eyes squeezing shut, trying not to cry with her. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She's shaking in his arms and he holds her tighter, unable to imagine what she's going through. They've only been together two years, he's only known Lav for a little bit less, only living with them for a year now. But she's had Lav for seventeen years, since she was six years old. Lav saw her through the death of her grandma, her cheating high school boyfriend, high school graduation, came with her when she moved to go to college. She also saw her through meeting Tom, graduating college, moving in with Tom, and then moving again with Tom.
Tom and her had both been holding onto hope that she'd be there for when Tom proposed, when they got married, and maybe if they were really lucky their first child. His heart aches as he thinks about what Lav hadn't been able to see her through and it makes him wish he was there for Lav's last moments.
He wants to tell her she should've called the base, called his office number, and pleaded a family emergency. He would've left immediately and rushed to the vet's office, to be there for her, to hold her. He hates to think of her having to gather up Lav to take her to the vet's all on her own and then sitting by herself and holding Lav alone as Lav was put down. But he knows if he said any of that she'd remind him that she promised to only bother him on base if it was truly an emergency and that this wasn't an emergency, just a painful moment.
He takes a deep breath at his own thoughts, at her words echoing in his mind, 'it's not an emergency Tom, just a painful moment'.
"What can I do to help you right now?"
"Hold me and don't let go." She murmurs.
His arms tighten more around her. "Never. I won't let you go until you tell me to."
Summary: In avoiding unwanted attention, you bump into better than you could’ve imagined (based on this request)
Genre: fluff?
Warnings: suggestive jokes
Pairing: Iceman x fem!reader
Word count: 1422
I fear I did not do this request justice, so apologies. Requests are open and I am slowly making my way through them! Also thinking of writing for House M.D! Please leave any feedback (just don't be mean), I always want to get better at writing.
As it was the night before the first day at Top Gun, the bar was bustling. There was not an inch of free space as naval officers packed in tightly enjoying one of their last nights of freedom for the upcoming future. This coupled with the fact you were one of the only females in the room, including the bar staff, made the environment incredibly overwhelming. Men were constantly coming up to you and treating you as wait staff, despite the fact you were due to start in Top Gun with them the following day. You had attended the open day a few week previous, but clearly most of the fellow attendees had not noticed you enough.
While you nursed a drink near the end of the bar, you began to regret coming to the bar, and you really regretted not wearing your uniform like the rest of the pilots had. Assuming the dress code was more casual, you had worn a short dress. You briefly spoke to the bar staff, who had looked sympathetically towards you as men (pilots and not pilots) came up to you and began leching while you tried to drink and socialise.
Most of the attempts you had made to mix with the other pilots led to being shut down as they didn’t believe that you could be a pilot and thought you were lying.
The only pilot you knew was Goose, he was the only one you had met before that had spoken to you as if you were an equal. Thankfully, Goose had promised he would be arriving tonight so you tried to stay out longer so you could see him before you went home.
It wasn’t too much longer that your conversation with the bartender was interrupted by Goose clapping his hand on your shoulder.
“Y/N, sorry I was late, I had to wrestle my pal here out of the house,” he pointed behind him to the shorter man who was dressed in his pilot uniform “This here is my partner, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, he is not as cool as I,” Goose laughed.
“Hi Pete!” you smiled as you reached to shake his hand. Maverick however took your hand, and brought to his mouth and brushed his lips to your knuckles. You grimaced slightly, as it was an odd first impression.
“Call me Mav, please,” he replied.
“Okay, Mav.” you smiled “Are you two ready for the morning?” you asked, looking between the two.
“We are ready, but first, we drink,” Goose cheered. At this the three of you clinked your glasses together in a cheer, and downed your drinks. Finally, the night was looking up as you were no longer alone and managed to enjoy your time.
The night passed with singing, drinking and chatting.You were finally enjoying your time, although it was getting hot inside so you decided to take a step outside for fresh air. As you stood sipping on what should be your last drink of the night, you looked around amazed at the opportunity you were having. Your thoughtful moment was interrupted by Maverick who silently appeared, startling you.
“Hi Mav,” you stuttered, surprised that he had appeared.
“Hi y/n,” he smiled. You looked ahead, intending for Maverick to get the hint that you were enjoying a peaceful moment to yourself.
He didn’t get the message.
“You look really good tonight,” he smiled.
“Thanks,” you nodded. You were sure he was really lovely, but he was a bit intense and you had come outside for a bit of space.
“I was wondering, if at the end of the first week, maybe you wanted to go for dinner?” He asked, scratching the back of his neck as he looked around.
“Like a date?” you questioned?
“Ye-yeah, like a date!” he smiled, thinking you were accepting.
“Oh oh” you smiled awkwardly “no.”
“Oh” he stopped awkwardly, unsure how to respond.
“I’m just gonna head back in,” you awkwardly said as you sidestepped around him.
You quickly snuck back, walking around the edge of the room to grab your jacket so you could head home. It had been a long evening and the awkward encounters with Pete made you just want to go home and have a soak in the bath.
Even though the night had gone on, and it was close to early hours of the morning and the bar had not emptied out at all. It was like human bumper cars as you slalomed through the crowds trying to find your jacket, which you were now regretting not bringing out with you in the first place.
Despite being aware of all the crowds of people you still managed to bump into people.
“Woah, are you okay?” a tall man asked.
“Uh yeah, just trying to find my jacket,” you smiled awkwardly.
“Let me help,” he said as he turned to face the direction you had been headed in “Do I know you?” he asks.
“Um, kind of? We’re in Top Gun together, my name’s y/n,” you answered, slightly calmer than you were when you initially bumped into him.
“Oh shit, I knew I recognised you. My name’s Iceman, people usually call me Ice.” he stopped to shake your hand.
“Nice to meet you Ice,” you smiled as you returned the shake. The handshake went on a bit long, and you were unsure when to end it. Your hands continued shaking as you smiled at each other. It wasn’t until someone bumped into Ice’s back that the two of you stopped shaking hands.
Slowly, you meandered towards your chair that you had left your jacket and Ice trailed behind you.
“It was nice to meet you y/n,” Ice says as you picked up your jacket.
“Likewise Ice” you felt your heart flutter as you looked up at him. This was the first time you could properly see his face due to the poor lighting in the bar. You smiled up at him, your eyes meeting as you noticed he had also been analysing your face.
The moment was quickly ruined as you noticed Mav come back into the bar, wanting to avoid an awkward situation you looked for a place to hide.
“Woah, are you okay?” Ice asked, his face searching for yours.
“Uh yeah, Maverick just came in, and I would like to avoid him as I’ve just rejected him,” you laughed.
“Oh,” he smiled “Want me to hide you?” Ice asked
“Hide me?” you had absolutely no idea what he meant.
“Yeah hide you,” Ice enthused.
“Uh, sure,” you giggled.
“Right, let me sit on this chair and, you get under the bar, and I’ll make sure you stay hidden,” he says as he pulls out the stool.
“Under the bar?” you smirked as you got onto your knees and squished under the bar.
“I did not think I would have you on your knees this quick,” he smirked in return, causing you to swat his thigh as he shuffled the stool in to hide you.
You were about to say something inappropriate in return but you noticed the legs of an approaching pilot and you decided to stay quiet.
“Yo, Ice, have you seen y/n? She was sitting here earlier,” Mav asked.
“Uh, n-no. I saw her get her jacket a while ago,” he stuttered. You had almost slipped and grabbed onto his thigh to avoid falling onto the floor at Maverick’s feet, but by grabbing Ice’s leg you caused him to gasp out loud.
“You good, Ice?” Pete asked, assessing the man who was unusually skittish. What Pete was unaware of, is that you were still holding onto his knee under the bar, partly to not fall over, but it was also entertaining as Ice became flustered.
“Y-yeah,” he stuttered. Unsure how to respond, Pete just awkwardly looked around and walked back towards the exit.
The two of you remained in the precarious position, waiting for the coast to be clear. It felt like hours before Ice scooted his chair back and looked down at you.
“You are mean,” he laughed.
“What’s life without a bit of fun?” you laughed as you stood and draped your jacket over your shoulders.
“Thank you for hiding me, I enjoyed being on my knees for you,” you winked as you slowly walked away watching him.
