One hundred points
(Open, Unmoderated)
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Summary
The kid staring at him across the bar is young, Hawaiian shirt and blue board shorts, aviators pinned to a thin white undershirt, the V of his crooked collar showing a light smattering of freckles over sun-kissed clavicles. Probably some navy admiral's rebellious kid looking for a good time. Maverick's gone through his fair share of them way back when. This one is at least a decade too young for Maverick's current tastes. That ridiculous old-school mustache he's got going on does nothing to hide the signs of youth in the rest of his body — smooth supple skin and the effortless muscle that Maverick has to work hard to keep at his age.
"Like what you see?" Maverick says in way of greeting. It's a lot more straightforward than his usual pickup lines, but he's four drinks in and itching to be bent over some flat surface and fucked hard.
Something that looks like disbelief flits over the kid's face, then his expression smooths out once more, hardens.
He opens his mouth and it's a man's voice that says, "Yeah, I do."
Companion Piece: This Empty Love