It's almost always sunny when they have sex.
Most people would probably figure Maverick, as quick to spread his legs for the admiral as the admiral's daughter, would be the one who starts it, the foreplay and everything; but it's almost always Iceman, with his book-on-tape narrator voice and quick, nimble fingers, spreading Maverick out and up and down.
Iceman's car is older but classy as hell. It has none of the pizazz of Maverick's motorcycle and doesn't try to attain it -- its charm lies in its easy-going nature and purring engine, big and silent instead of small, bombastic, and loud.
It's not sunny when they fuck on Iceman's car.
It's nighttime and Maverick is drunk, so drunk tried to write a check to a homeless wino for five thousand dollars before Iceman could pull him away (which Maverick protests, loudly, pulling at the sleeve of Iceman's dress whites). They're stumbling out of the officer's club long after hours because some four-star goddamn commander that Iceman met all of once at a party held them there for about fifteen years, telling them about the good old days and how lucky they were to be fighting the good fight against "those dirty communists" instead of "those crazy Viet bastards".
Maverick slides his knee between Iceman's thighs as he tries to navigate around him in the dark parking lot.
"Stop it, Mitchell," Iceman growls, pushing his hands away. He's a grumpy drunk.
"You're fucking hot when you're mad," Maverick tells him in an innocent little voice, taking his hand and sliding it up under his own ass, then tilting his head.
Iceman pushes him gently toward his car. He's hard, too. Damn.
Maverick steps in front of Iceman and all of a sudden they're a tangle of legs and arms and hard-ons. Iceman's all hot and bothered, now, but he's not going to admit it. He's going to go home and jerk one off or maybe Maverick can stay over tonight but there's no way in hell they're having sex in public -- in public! with people around! because just the thought of it sends chills down his spine.
Maverick pulls Iceman down to him, because even though it says five-eight on his driver's license it's more like five-six and there's a marked height difference. He sucks on his bottom lip and draws his tongue up between Iceman's teeth, pulling him down harder, seams tearing. Iceman's hips buckle and he stumbles forward, pushing Maverick up against the hood of the car, their crotches grinding together. Iceman tips his head and licks his Adam's apple, and Maverick whines, hands pressing down against the hood.
His nerves are shot to hell knowing some schmuck is going to come around the corner, fumbling for his keys, and find himself privy to the little strip show Maverick is putting on -- tearing his pants down as Iceman tries to hold himself together long enough to fuck him, then letting himself be pushed up onto the hood by Iceman. It's still warm from the San Diego sun hitting it all day and Maverick whimpers a little when it touches his skin, setting Iceman off. He bites his lip until he tastes iron and shoves Maverick a little harder, until he lets out a hiss and a growl reminiscent of the not-too-long-ago days when they were spitting one-liners at each other and Iceman was snapping his teeth like a big blond cobra.
His ass is curving so comfortably under Iceman's dick that it would be heresy not to fuck him right here, right now, but Iceman's neck is prickling for all of the possible hidden voyeurs in the darkness. Maverick makes another needy noise, and that's all the convincing he needs to fumble with his belt (well, remove it -- Iceman never fumbles with anything except goodbyes and apologies) and bite out some remark about Maverick being a slut and how many cars have you had sex on, Mitchell, I'll be so goddamn lucky to not die of a venereal disease if I sleep with you even one more time, the blustery kind of stuff that gets Maverick so hot he's almost begging, except Mitchells never beg.
When he's inside Maverick it's like the high of going Mach 4 is bleeding through his veins for the second time that day. Maverick twists underneath him and bucks backward into his hips, sweat soaking through his clothes, teeth gnashing, as Iceman rocks himself deeper and deeper inside, hands tugging while Maverick moans his name, first and last and callsign. His ears prick to footsteps but before it even registers he's coming messily inside Maverick and letting out his breath out in a tangled string of vowels. Maverick pulls himself off of the hood, red marks from the radiator grinding into him laid across his hips, wiping at himself fruitlessly with a handkerchief. His short, dark hair is skewed and his chest is rising and falling in a way that makes Iceman flicker inside for a round two, but instead he steps over to the driver's side and gets into the car, doing his fly. Maverick pulls his pants on and follows.