Work Text:
The small electric shower in Mav’s hangar is starting to give up, digging in its proverbial heels at the prospect of being used six times a day for the forseeable remainder of its lifespan.
Which is entirely Rooster’s fault. Firstly, because he’s now out in Mojave with Maverick more often than not, and the kid sweats up a storm in the heat and with the exertion of carrying parts and helping him out with repairs. And working out to maintain his muscle mass. Which also requires him filling the fridge with chicken, yoghurts, and generally eating Mav out of house and home. Maverick banished him and his set of weights outside after the fourth time he dropped them right onto the concrete floor after a straining, vein-popping set of reps and nearly startled Maverick out of his skin at the resounding crash.
Secondly -
“Mm,” Rooster groans, hungry and satisfied at once. His arm is braced over Mav’s lower back, his chest against the soft backs of Mav’s thighs, and they’re both lying face-down on the mattress. With Rooster thumbing at the tender, reddened rim of Mav’s hole and watching his own cum leak out from about ten inches distance. “Fuck, Mav. Still so tight.”
Rooster has a goddamn obsession with coming in him. And on him. Repeatedly.
“You holding it inside for me?” Rooster’s still murmuring. Mav’s head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, eyes lidded and his cheek pressed to the pillow while he catches his breath. His cock rests pitifully in its own wet spot in the sheets, faint throbbing pleasure lingering even after he's gone soft. “God, yeah. You take it so good.”
Sweat sticks his hair to his temples, beads up in the small of his back under the weight of Rooster’s forearm, and he feels too exhausted to even think about covering himself up or rolling onto his side, much less speaking. Rooster fucks like a jackhammer on speed, and sometimes he’s not quite sure how he’s keeping up. They’ve gone all night more than once, and luckily for Mav’s ass, Bradley is happy to just constantly touch him in lieu of sex three times a day. Which he could feasibly do.
He can’t say he doesn’t like it. Rooster touching and nuzzling and kissing him, looking at him like he’s the most beautiful person in the world, fucking him like he’s going to knock him up if he just pumps enough spunk up his ass -
Mav flushes, and buries his face a little deeper in the soft pillow.
When Rooster isn’t coming inside him and filling him up, he’s got a real thing for coming on his skin. His thighs. His ass. His chest, his back, his face - once, memorably, all over Mav’s soft and spent cock. And that would be one thing - fifty percent of the time, he washes or wipes or licks Mav clean with reverence, hands or washcloth warm on his skin. The other fifty, he wants Mav to let it dry in. To get dressed with his cock still covered in drying cum, smeared up over his hip, for him to walk around the hangar with his cheeks flaming and cum sticking to the bridge of his nose. Dealing with Rooster’s eyes stuck on him and trailing him around the place, looking ready to jump him and bring them both right back down to the floor in a mess of rapidly unclothing limbs.
One other thing is Rooster’s fault - he’s made Mav confront how much he likes it.
Surely it makes him a little fucked up; that he spends some days anticipating the moment when Rooster will put his hands on his waist, kiss his neck gently to test the waters of his willingness - and then push him down chest-first to the workbench, tools rattling, and Mav will have already worked himself open with his fingers for Rooster to groan out a low string of praise before sliding home. Fucking him anywhere and everywhere, wiping cum on his hot cheek, getting out what feels like decades of pent-up tension and pouring it all over Mav.
One day, any day now, he’s gonna catch Rooster storing refrigerated bottles of his spunk, or something and trying to get together enough to fill a tub and convince Mav to get in it and lather up.
Rooster suddenly laughs against his thigh. “The fuck, Mav?”
“Mh,” he mumbles blearily into the pillow, mouth mashed to linen. “I say that out loud?”
“That’s some serial killer level shit. I’m not that perverted.”
Mav eyes him, squinting. “You put my own cum up my ass before. With a turkey baster.”
“Yeah? I’m a weird fuck,” Rooster says, unbothered. “Anyways, it was an oral syringe. And you’re just as bad.”
“I am not. ”
“Which one of us blows his load every time I start touching you near the bike or the plane?”
“Rooster, you’re trying to get me off?”
“And you stare at that damn Kawasaki like it’s gonna fuck you.”
“Jealous?” Mav throws back, finally summing up the energy to flip over - lifting a leg high enough to clear Rooster’s head - and resting back on his elbows. Laid out naked in their sheets - their sheets, he thinks again, just for the warm thrill of it - with Bradley laid on his front between his tired and bare thighs.
Rooster lifts up too; onto his hands and knees. Pressing his mouth to the inside of Mav’s left thigh and then his hip, prowling up the bed like he’s stalking prey he’s already got between his figurative paws. Kissing his stomach. Passing his mouth over his right nipple and licking it briefly, before putting his arms on either side of Mav’s face and leaning in to kiss him. Sweetly.
He always goddamn melts for the kid when he’s soft. When he cuddles up behind Mav in their bed or on the sofa in the evenings, or just looks at him like an overgrown puppy, soft curls and big brown eyes. He’d really let Rooster do anything, and the kid’s starting to figure that out.
“Always,” Rooster murmurs into Mav’s neck.
*
The bar is full.
From the moment he walks in with Rooster behind him, he’s wide-eyed. Half-deafened by the noise, trying to see over the shoulders of the throng and taking in the overpowering crush of people. It takes genuine effort to push through the crowd to the bar and Penny behind it, even with Rooster helping him edge through and forging a path where Mav’s stuck between contractors and officers and civilians. Maverick tries to call out a hello - and the second he shows his face at the bartop, the other pilots catch sight of him. As one.
“Mav!” Bob cheers, glasses slipping down his nose - god, how much did they let him drink - and stumbles forwards when Jake slings an arm around his shoulders, lifting his own sunglasses off the bridge of his nose and settling them into his hair.
“As I live and breathe, ” Seresin drawls. Also drunk. “The lovebirds grace us. Wanna tell us why you’re running late, Rooster?”
“Your sweet Southern ears would fall right off,” Rooster says, easily, and Maverick swears his face flames red. He digs an elbow into Rooster’s side, not subtly, and the others roar laughing at the way Bradley grunts and folds.
“They’re still on honeymoon,” Javy cuts in, and Maverick considers hiding behind the bar with Penny. “It’s a given. You’re meant to be all wrapped up in each other.”
“We’re not married,” he protests weakly, before letting himself be pulled in for a round of hugs.
“Might as well be,” someone says. Maybe Phoenix.
“Yeah, Roo’s the commitment type. Like - really committed.”
Mav snorts, disbelieving. “I still outrank you all, you know?”
Jake puts his hand down on the pool table, the other hand on his hip, and lets a grin spread across his face. “But can you beat us in the grandest pool tournament this place has ever seen? Or should we get out there on the beach for some football?”
That gets a cheer. A giddy, light swell of noise, and he loves them all so goddamn much that it aches. They’re all here. They’re alive. They don’t hate him for what he and Rooster are doing, and they all still want to get together as often as shore leave and deployment will allow.
Given that he and Rooster are the only ones not neck deep in empty glasses and swaying where they stand, he’s willing to bet that he stands more than a decent chance of winning any challenge from darts to a dogfight. And if one thing hasn’t changed about him in thirty years; it’s his love of a good competition. And being the best.
Smiling, Rooster’s arm around his waist, he points right at Seresin and his shit-eating grin. “You’re on, Hangman.”
*
“Bad sportsmanship, kid,” Mav chides, looking over his shoulder. The pool cue is smooth in his hands, and he shifts his shoulders to get settled right. “Trying to psych out the competition, seriously?”
Jake grins, toothpick at risk of falling onto the felt. “It ain’t stupid if it works.”
Mav laughs, focusing back on the ball.
“What, this doesn’t rattle you?”
Every word gets injected with pure Texan twang, inches from his ear. Jake hasn’t been forward enough to get behind him, but he’s putting himself close enough to Mav’s side for the occasional brush of a leg, a nudge of their elbows, and now their shoulders. It’s honestly just funny; the kid thinking that a bit of worming into his personal space could blunt his edge. He’s flown with missile lock blaring in his ears. This is nothing.
“Takes more than that, kid,” he murmurs, so low in his throat that Jake swallows a little at the rumble of it, lips pressing tight around that silly toothpick -
And Mav takes the shot, sinks his seven, leaving Jake three behind and losing desperately despite his talent and practice and taunting.
“Go, Mav!”
Phoenix cheers loudly, perched beside Bob, and Coyote and Fanboy immediately start teasing Jake as he stomps past them and squints at the table to try and form a strategy. Whatever he comes up with doesn’t seem to be panning out as he shifts around and tries new angles - Maverick stands there, smiling, hands folded over the tip of his upright cue - and looks up at intervals to glare at them all. His newly longer hair flops over his forehead, and they all chuckle when Coyote helpfully plucks the forelock back and holds it up like a toddler’s pigtail.
“Come on, baby, bring it home,” Rooster says, sitting back on the windowsill with a beer in his hand. “Teach our golden boy a lesson.”
Mav turns his head and smiles at Rooster like he does when they’re nose-to-nose and Mav’s already come and Rooster’s on his last few thrusts before they crumple into each other on the mattress and Mav spreads his shaking legs, tilting his hips up to show Rooster the slow, creamy drip running down the crease of his ass. Because he knows Rooster likes it and he'd give him anything in his power and just beyond it.
Rooster swallows, and his beer tilts in his hand, off to the side -
“I ain’t just some kid, pops,” Jake says. Leaning right back into his field of vision, cutting between Mav and Rooster like a shutter sliding along. “And I ain’t a quitter either.”
Mav rolls his eyes, half-grinning, and lines up his shot. “Pity you’re about to lose the crown, son. Maybe you should know when to quit. Maybe before biting off a chunk you just can’t handle.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Maybe it’s the beer that makes Seresin take the risk. The imminent threat of losing. The chance to get Rooster pissed off, always Jake’s favourite way to punctuate a night; because the next thing Mav knows is that he’s got Jake’s breath hot on his neck and his hand, slighter than Rooster’s but bigger than Maverick’s own, slung over his lower back and curled around his waist to his stomach. Jake and his cologne pressed up against and half on top of him, nose brushing under his ear and his fingers curling into the loose-hanging hem of Mav’s white cotton top. Pressing him into the pool table, weight and heat on him that’s dead set on breaking his concentration if the immediate hollering from the group doesn’t.
Laughing, Mav stares down the line of his cue and ignores Seresin’s warm cheek pressed against his. “I’ll give you points for fucking balls. But you’re still -”
He draws his arm back.
“-just-”
Shoots.
“-a kid.”
The eight sinks neatly, the silent group surrounding them explodes, and Jake murmurs a low, disappointed aw, fuck, right before getting wrenched off him unceremoniously and Rooster’s crashing their mouths together and gripping him tight enough to lift him up off the ground against his body, hands flat over his back and his ass. Mav clings to his neck, swept up and grinning against Rooster’s lips between every push of his tongue or click of their teeth.
There are chants of get a room mixed in with the cooing and catcalls, but Mav barely hears them. Rooster’s holding on to him bruisingly tight, growling low enough that Mav doubts anyone but him can hear it, and his eyes -
He’s glaring at Jake, eyes burning and narrowed. Completely incandescent, and considering the lack of smart-alec comments from the defeated champion himself - it’s not just Mav feeling the simmering vibe.
“Bradley,” he murmurs, reaching him and kissing him again. “Hey, Bradley. Don’t be -”
“Furious?”
“Jealous,” he chides. “He’s drunk. And a dumbass.”
“A fucking moron. ”
“Maybe,” Mav allows, still smoothing his hands down Rooster’s broad chest.
“He can’t just fucking touch you,” Rooster grunts, a hand on the small of Mav’s back like he might just whisk him out of reach and set him on a high shelf. It’s adorable. And he knew Rooster might have possessive tendencies - hell, he’s been possessive since he was seven years old and glaring at Mav’s girlfriend at the time, small arm wrapped tight around his Maverick’s leg.
Maverick snorts. “I don’t think he will again. Not with that look you’ve given him.”
Rooster’s jaw tenses, defined and hard. Like he’s not quite convinced, thinking of a hundred ways to make sure that Maverick is clearly stamped out as his.
And then his hand relaxes. His jaw follows. And his fingers wrap around Mav’s wrist and before he knows it he’s being pulled across the bar, back through the crowd, and Rooster’s locking the bathroom door behind them.
“You’re mine,” he says, low and rough, and Mav’s eyes widen before he’s backed against the cool tile wall and kissed again, broad hands roaming up under his shirt and gripping him, running over his ribs and rubbing at his nipples with his thumbs until they stand out obscenely under the white cotton of his top. “Mine. I’ve fucking - I waited - I’m not-”
“That’s right,” he soothes, even as he’s up on his tiptoes and pressed into the wall. “Sweetheart - you’ve got me now. I’m not going away ever again, I swear.”
“Promise.”
Rooster’s hand strokes his jaw, then tightens on it, and Maverick’s stomach flips hotly.
“I’m yours.”
Leaning against him, Bradley presses even more of his weight to Maverick’s body and drives some breath from his lungs. Makes him feel small, delicate, staring up at Rooster and the hard set to his face.
“Never gonna leave you alone,” Mav says, softer. “We’re - it’s us now, baby. The two of us. As long as you want it.”
The way that Rooster's face crumples and smooths and warms again says you’d better not, and always, and promise, Mav, promise me. And maybe it’s wrong of Maverick - maybe it’s a little fucked up - but being wanted the way Rooster wants him is something he could bask in forever. Maybe he’s jealous and possessive. He’s a little obsessed with Mav. He’ll probably fuck him into a stupor or straight unconsciousness one of these days, but sometimes Mav looks at Rooster sleeping against his chest and thinks that it’s all he’s ever wanted.
“Mav -”
“I know. I know, baby.”
“You know what I need?”
“Yeah.” He nods, slowly, and puts a hand to Rooster’s belt, right over the bulge straining the front of his jeans. “I do.”
The taller man watches, and doesn’t stop him. No interruption or correction comes when he uses Rooster’s strong thighs for something to hold onto while he goes to his knees on the tile, works the belt on his jeans open fully and nearly hits himself in the cheek with the buckle.
The tile floor is cold under him, when he opens his mouth. Glancing up, knowing just how he looks with his lashes low and his tongue offered soft and pink. And he waits on his knees for Rooster to draw a rough breath and take his cock in hand, the other around the back of his skull. Tapping the head of it against his tongue like he thinks he’s in some sort of porno, before slowly putting it past his lips.
Sucking at the head, Mav’s hand moves down to the front of his own jeans.
His steadying hand flexes against the back of Rooster’s thigh, and he draws a breath in before bobbing his head and taking more of that perfect cock in, swallowing down spit and feeling his partner forcibly restrain himself from thrusting, taking over, fucking his face.
Bradley’s gritting his teeth when he looks up through his lashes. Bracing his hand back against the wall.
When he pulls off, his tongue feels thick and his voice is rough. Almost croaking, and he knows by the look in Rooster’s eyes that he wants him hoarse by the time this is done and they walk back out to the pool table and their teammates, Rooster’s friends, so everyone knows exactly how Rooster likes to stake a claim.
“Push me around.”
“What's that?”
“Do what you want. Tell me.” Mav licks over his lips, over the precome-salt aftertaste in his mouth. “I can take it. Want it.”
“And you call me perverted,” Rooster remarks drily, putting the rough side of his thumb to his teeth, tracking over the waterline.
He shrugs. And he’d laugh, if he weren’t busy filling his lungs with a gulp of air before Rooster can slide his cock back in and block his airway.
It’s pressure and heat, all over. A tugging on the roots of his hair and the rough brush of hair against his nose. The click of his throat and wet, thick noises when Rooster makes him bob his head, close to gagging every time. He swallows reflexively against the spit flooding his mouth, and Rooster lets out a groan, clutching the back of his head and forcing him in close.
He hollows his cheeks as best he can and closes his eyes, savouring this. The kid’s lucky he’s had practice - he sure as hell couldn’t do this with a casual partner. He’d lecture him for days if he thought Rooster had ever done something like this to some guy or girl.
“Mav,” Rooster’s saying, and it’s fuzzy through his dulled hearing. “Christ, Mav.”
Humming around Rooster’s prick gets him a rough grunt and a harsh thrust - he inhales as fast as he can when it’s just the head of it sitting in his mouth - and then Rooster pushes, gripping the sides of his head and lacing his long fingers over the back of it, fucking his throat and groaning at the tight grip and spasm of it.
“That’s it, fuck. ”
He coughs, thick drool from his throat pooling in his mouth when Rooster pulls out and lets him breathe, hard prick glistening wet with his spit between them. Letting go, holding him steady, making sure he’s drawing in full breaths.
“You’re mine,” Rooster informs him, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, cradling his face. “Nobody else’s. Not Penny’s. Not my dad’s. Not fucking Jake’s .”
“Yeah,” he rasps, leaning forwards to lick a stripe up the underside of Rooster’s prick. Letting it hit his face, wet, and slide up against his cheek. Inhaling the smell of it. Sex, and salt, and his partner. Goose’s son. The pilot he named as his wingman, like only Ice had ever been for him before - but oh, Rooster took up that mantle and wore it well.
Rooster takes his cock, guides it back in. “That’s enough. Suck.”
A graze of his teeth feels warranted. Might be, if his dick didn’t twitch at the way Rooster says it, authority painted across his voice and bolstered with a hand gripping the longer front of his hair. And because he loves him. Fuck, he loves it, and he loves him, and he’s past being ashamed of it. Rooster wants him. So he doesn’t bite, or snark, or even pause.
Instead, he sucks.
In a haze, tiles under his knees and big hands running over his head, cupping his cheeks and following down some unseen line to his jaw. Guiding him, then demanding like he asked, bringing him down as trim, narrow hips buck upwards. Where his ears pop and his hearing dulls, all sight becomes a narrow slice filtered through his lashes. Rooster’s jeans under his clutching hand feel rough, but the hem of his colourful shirt is soft over Mav’s knuckles, brushing back and forth.
He drifts, only coming back to the surface when Rooster says his name loud enough. Says that he’s a slut, that he’s good, a whore, perfect, beautiful. The thrusting pulls him back down, sinking into a space he’s only found himself in a few times before, where the ache in his jaw and the burning split in his lip turn into pure pleasure and pour down him to his dick and tightening balls and ass, heated and electric.
“Almost,” Rooster grunts, breathless, and he redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head. The idea of making Rooster come undone is still a priority-
-and Rooster pulls out of his mouth.
“Turn around.”
“Huh?”
Rooster taps his cock against his cheek, a humiliating little wet slap. “Turn around. Right now.”
Shuffling on his knees, baffled, he puts his back to Rooster and his hands to the wall. Knees apart, the small of his back arched and he listens to Rooster pant behind him, hand moving slowly and firmly on his cock.
“Gonna show everyone who you belong to. Never gonna let you out of the house again without my cum plugged up your ass or sitting in your pretty mouth. Remind them. Want them to smell me on you, fuck, want them all to know I fuck you stupid and you take it so pretty, take it like a good - oh, fuck-”
(It’s ninety percent fantasy, he knows. But it’s fucking sexy. )
“Rooster?” he breathes.
“Wanna come in your hair,” Rooster chokes out. “Cover you. Make you filthy. Walk you back out there with that goddamn voice and my spunk, make you rub it into your hair and go around with it - my - ah -”
Something swells in his chest, breaks, rushes like pure adrenaline through him.
“Do it.”
“Mav, fuck -”
“Do it!”
It’s different to feel cum hit your hair than your skin. Mav’s forehead touches against the tile and leans there, blessedly cool.
He hears Rooster exhale, satisfied, over the fevered pounding in his ears. The bigger man’s hand kneads at his shoulder, the back of his burning neck, as he keeps his head bowed and his eyes closed tight. He can feel the dampness in his hair, tacky over his ear, and he shivers. How could he help it?
“Imagine the others checking in on us now,” Rooster says, after a moment. He sounds faintly out of breath. “Coming to that door. Seein’ you like this. Christ. You’ve no idea how filthy you look.”
Mm. His imagination’s supplying a pretty vivid image.
His breath hitches, and Mav digs his fingertips into the wall harder. There’s no give, only his own skin pushing back against fine bones, but he does it anyways. Rooster keeps stroking just under his hairline, fingers moving against the very top of his spine. The atlas, or the axis, something like that. His old physiotherapist used to have a huge printout on the wall, mapping out the curves of a spine.
In the silence of the room, he hears Rooster wetting his mouth. Licking the roof of it, unsticking tongue from teeth before letting out a low, measured breath. Then Rooster smiles - he doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does -
“Rub it into your hair. Before it’s gone dry.”
Dreamlike, head still swimming, Mav reaches up with one hand and brings it from front to back through his hair. His fingers touch against - against spunk, he thinks to himself, and shudders. Thinks it again, rolling it over in his head until he shudders some more, and lets his chest tighten up as he drags his hand forward, working cooling cum forwards from where it began, tracking it around his scalp. It’s disgusting. It’s so fucking dirty, and his dick throbs, and something in his lower belly goes hot and liquid.
They’re all gonna know, he imagines. How he’s Rooster’s, and how he lets him mark him like this.
Rooster lets out a groan, still standing behind him where he’s slumped. Over him, towering tall, watching him debase himself.
Standing so much higher than him, he reaches to cup Mav’s jaw from behind and feels the loose slack of the joint with the side of his thumb. The huff of his breath - of his panting, really - against his fingers, and the slick of his spit over his own lips from licking at them and biting down on the lower one, over and over.
“Mav,” Rooster says. His voice is thick. “Come on, up on your feet.”
With the questionable assistance of Rooster’s hands hooked under his damp armpits, he does manage to struggle into a half-standing, half-leaning sort of pose against the wall. He’s still hard in his jeans, but it falls secondary to the swirl of humiliation and arousal stirring up his mind, making him slow and clumsy and eager to lean into Rooster. All of it in the mirror before him. All of it reflected back at them, the picture they make; of a smaller man crushed against the tile and a larger, younger man wrapped around him, covering his body and pulling his head back by the jaw to bare his throat and leave it pale in the light. Shadows and light and lovely dirt.
Rooster’s voice melts soft.
“So fucking beautiful, Mav.”