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Even as a confident and objectively handsome master in his mid twenties, Iceman had only ever made one claim. It had been right after highschool, he was nervous. The Master Words stammered out of his lips, formed wobbly in the air, and settled sloppily across his thrall's ribcage. He had chosen the traditional proclamation, I solemnly claim thee as mine. The clumsy ritual created a tentative bond that burned hot and bright for about three weeks and then faded, with distance and intent, within six months; a textbook training claim between a young master and a young thrall.
Other masters would go on to make a series of new claims, one after the other. In fact, the average master in the modern age formed and eventually dissolved five claims before finding the one they would grow old with.
Not Iceman.
He made that first claim, and since then he kept his private life casual. Having gotten a feel for it, and having learned from his mistakes, he intended his next one to stick.
Iceman wanted a true mate. But aspiring to be a Top Gun instructor and eventually an admiral did not leave a lot of room for mating rituals. So he had that dream on the back burner.
It was not anyone's business, anyway. He may or may not have kept the romanticism of his abstinence to himself and allowed his flight school buddies to believe he simply did not care to bond with anyone. Ever.
Hence, Iceman.
But then there was a hot shot in the front row, day one of Top Gun.
Iceman had conflicting emotions upon meeting Pete Mitchell.
The little guy had too much swagger for someone so skinny. And his smile was quick and broad, but his eyes were a fiery challenge. And his call sign? Maverick. (Definition one: unorthodox. Definition two, archaic : an unclaimed, unmarked thrall.) A Navy fighter pilot openly displaying his chaste status like that?
Might as well have the word Virgin printed on his flight helmet.
These, in case it isn't clear, were all the things Iceman liked about Pete.
What he did not like was that Maverick was brash, overly cocky, and even at times rude to his superiors. He was also casually promiscuous, which the modern age might try to say is okay but it fucking IS NOT. (Yes, the double standard is there, but Iceman saw a huge difference in a master fucking strangers and a thrall doing it.)
And, sure, Maverick was a damn good pilot--bold, aggressive, imaginative--but more than once he left his wingman.
You never leave your wingman.
So Maverick was interesting, but he was dangerous. The wrong kind of dangerous. And even worse than that, he knew what he was doing, and he did not think it was wrong.
Who even let a thrall be trained for combat, anyway? Let alone an unclaimed one. And in the Navy of all forces! Was it any wonder Pete Mitchell was all gunpowder and swagger? He broke traditional values just being here, so why should any other rule apply? And his attitude was really no surprise. He would have had to prove himself every time he walked into a room.
Iceman almost immediately had the itch. He knew better. He stayed in control. But every time he saw Mitchell, his confident strut, his broad dimpled smile, his tight little body, he could not shake the idea of claiming Maverick. Branding his Master Words into that supple skin. Publicly designating him as property of Tom "Iceman" Kazansky. Keeping him--all that speed and fire--in line. Satisfying him into perfect submission...
Maybe all of Iceman's desire was right there in his eyes, maybe it was jumping visibly under his skin, or maybe it was just because he was the only unbonded master, and Maverick was the only maverick, but everyone seemed to instantly mark Pete Mitchell as out of bounds, property of Iceman. And that thrilled Iceman but it very clearly pissed Maverick the fuck off.
Every conversation between them was tense because of it. Maverick puffing up and fighting back, refusing to show even an ounce of his natural thrall status. Trying to make it clear as day that he did not and never would submit to any master, especially Iceman.
Wearing a cocksure grin, a whole suit of bravado, and a challenge glinting in his eye, Maverick lived his life at breakneck speeds in the peripherals of Iceman's life, because for the most part, they stayed in separate orbits.
Once or twice, Iceman tried to be a leader and show him--in a non mating way--what the rules were. How a team works. But Maverick refused to be corralled.
And every second of every encounter popped and crackled. Iceman's instincts yearned to conquer the maverick, to own him. But the threat was there, under Maverick's every word. Behind Maverick's every smile. Acknowledge my status and I'll fuck you up.
So he never did. But, god, did he want to. Sometimes he burned with it. What it would be like to tease Maverick with the promise of pleasure. Tease him the way he strutted around teasing Ice. Give him a dose of his own medicine.
Then Goose died.
***
No, Maverick had never before entered a claim. Ever. At twenty four, handsome, and in the Navy, that was certainly odd. But a thrall in flight school? Downright unorthodox. Another word for unorthodox being the same word society had long ago adopted to describe thralls that had yet to have even their first claim, and, well. His call sign was a given.
The charming but aggressive attitude Maverick developed was half genetics and half necessary survival. The showboating was a knee jerk reaction, and the swagger was KNOWING how good he was.
His unbonded status was deeply personal. Life taught him--early--that claiming culture was for the birds. One day you're half of a whole. The next day your master is dead. Your once vibrant claim words are dull on your skin like the echo of a promise not kept. The government can only give you a flag, and a death report redacted half to oblivion. What else is there to do but fall apart, little by little, every day after that?
Genuine question: why would a sane person volunteer for that fate?
Goose had all these positives about life inside a claim. He would: he was the master, and his thrall was a wonderful vibrant woman safe and sound in a house on the base.
Maybe sometimes Maverick did think it must be nice. To have someone. For someone to have you. For the loneliness to be swallowed up by the soul of someone else. Someone who could make all the noise go away. Someone who spoke a vow straight onto your skin… straight into your soul...
But most of the time, he just focused on flying as much as humanly possible.
Getting into Top Gun was the dream. One he honestly did not expect to get. After all, he was that talented thrall that had only been allowed in combative flight school as a PR stunt. Years of flying had taught him that no matter how good he was, the Navy was always going to find someone better. Because they liked him in second place. It made them look tolerant and inclusive while still proving that age old agenda.
So when Cougar freaked out and quit, Maverick met the challenge of Top Gun with a smirk.
And then, like a magnet, there he was.
Iceman.
That beautiful, confident master with the cool-guy frosted tips.
He started off by taking liberties with personal space and oozing master dominance all over the place. It was like he knew that Maverick itched to kneel. Itched to expose a bare patch of skin for his claim. Which was never going to fucking happen. Ever.
Who did Iceman think he was? Telling him what to do? Judging his actions as if he had a say in what Maverick did? As if he had a claim.
Fucking asshole. And those frosted tips? Stupid, right?
And how did Iceman believe that following the rules was cooler than thinking for yourself? What damage must he have?
Maverick ignored Iceman as much as he could. Outright avoided him if he could do so without looking like that was what he was doing.
It was all part of his necessary survival tactics. There was always at least one master on the prowl, putting out distracting pheromones, and so it was not anything new, pretending not to notice...
Then Goose died.
***
When Iceman saw the flat spin and heard Maverick's panicked shouts, a lot of things went through his mind. He did not want to call it his whole life flashing before his eyes--he was not the one going down, after all--but it was Maverick, his maverick, in trouble. So maybe it was half his life. The life he could have with Pete Mitchell, but only if he survived.
Thank God he did.
The accident rattled everyone. It was tough to lose a teammate like that, to be reminded so vividly of your own mortality at the same time. Iceman tried to shake it all off. But one thing had become clear:
If he never made Maverick his, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
***
There was no one here like Goose.
Goose had been the only family Pete had in the world, but on this base? Maverick was now utterly alone. He had no other real connections here. The next closest thing he had was... Iceman, and only then in some rivalry or twisted joke.
It was not like he could go to him for comfort. Right?
Everyone gave him a wide berth. Merped out condolences. Slapped him on the back. He could feel nothing.
They told him that it would keep happening. People, friends, die. That he had to let Goose go. Even Carole, with her Claim Words-- Forever mine, my darling --no longer glowing on her collarbones, told him that he had to fly anyway.
Maverick could hardly bear seeing her unlit words, dull and lifeless, sitting there like ashy cinders waiting to fade with time, so much like his mother's had been...
He felt so fucking alone.
They put him in a jet and shot him into the sky. But it was all wrong. He could not feel it the way he used to. The magic was gone. All he could feel was the dead weight of his best friend bobbing in the ocean with him.
Walking across the tarmac after he bugged out of the training exercise, he did finally feel something. He felt that everyone--all of them--every single one of them had been right. Combat was no place for a thrall, especially an unclaimed one.
A maverick belonged in the medical bay, or the galley or at a computer. Not behind a gun in a dog fight 35,000 feet in the air. His call sign had not been a badge of honor, it had been a joke, one that everyone but Pete had been in on, until now.
***
Ouch, that bug out was hard to watch. Iceman could not believe it. It was like someone else had been in that cockpit.
He had to do something. But what?
He had no plan when he found Maverick cleaning out his locker.
"I'm sorry about Goose. Everyone liked him. I'm sorry."
It was not enough. The condolences were all he could find, and it was not enough. When Maverick attempted to leave without so much as a word, Iceman caught his arm.
There was no plan. If anything, it was instinct. And not even the cold calculated instinct Iceman usually flew with. It was lower than that and hot, like a lit fuse. (Dear God, this was what Maverick flew with wasn't it? Used to fly with. Unless Iceman could fix it.)
Catching Maverick had turned him, and Ice pressed in close, forcing Pete up against the lockers. "Stay," he said, softly. His voice wavered on the line between regular speech and master speech. He just barely kept that single syllable from being a Master Claim. Because Pete Mitchell did that to him, pushed him to the edge of his self control… he wanted so much, it hurt.
Maverick would not meet his eye, looking high and to the right, he shook his head.
Ice tightened his grip and came in even closer. Their shirts brushed. His will power only just barely kept the words neutral, "You have to stay."
"Why?" he rasped. His eyes shone with unfallen tears.
"You belong here," Ice whispered.
Their eyes finally met. Then Maverick's eyes fell down to Ice's lips. It was unclear who started it, but in the next heartbeat they were kissing. Full mouth, tongue. Bodies pressing together.
Ice held him under the ears, could feel the thrall's fingers twisting his shirt into his fists. The kiss was good. Maverick never submitted to it. If anything, he fought back. The kiss rocked them this way and that, a grapple as their tongues slid together.
There seemed to be a hunger in Maverick, one that matched a hunger in Ice. But then Maverick broke away. With a white hot, withering glare Maverick looked at Iceman like he was the enemy. And then he was gone, the locker room door slamming behind him on the way out.
***
When Goose was alive, quitting was a dirty word. An unthinkable action. But now it was all there was to do.
Maverick sat at the bar, not even willing to get drunk. But what else was there? He did not even know where he would go. Or what he would do.
Truck driving school?
Fuck, Goose . Goddammit .
Someone sat at the bar next to him. Pale eyes, stark jaw, cool and quiet aura. Iceman ordered a beer and said nothing else for a long time.
Maverick peeled at his beer bottle. He could not even stomach the idea of taking the first swig. Somehow it made him sick just thinking about it. What was he doing here? This was all wrong.
But what was right? What the hell else was he supposed to do?
Iceman spoke, leaning in, and voice not soft with compassion but not ice cold either. "Did you come this far to only come this far?"
"I'm not the poster boy for equality between the statuses. I just wanted to fly."
"Yeah, because you're not satisfied unless you're going mach-two with your hair on fire. So how ya gonna do that if you go?"
"Leave me alone."
"Pete," it was the first time he used his given name. "Stay." His eyes were intense. He seemed almost breathless. "With me."
Maverick held onto old principles with his fingertips, remembering that kiss from just a few hours ago. Every single word Iceman had said in that locker room had felt… alive with a promise. Like with just a little more umph, they would be very real and glowing in the air, a vow sealing itself in his skin. His voice had that same quality now and his eyes said it plain as day.
Pete was glad no proclamation had been made. He felt so alone, so scared and weak, he would have consented. So he spoke through his teeth. "You wanna Claim me, is that it?"
"Yeah." He answered so casually it was like it was all some joke. He popped a peanut in his mouth and grinned as he chewed and everything. It annoyed Maverick, who clenched his jaw.
"I'm unclaimed. On purpose."
A shrug, a bored sigh, "Then I won't claim ya. I can still make you feel better. If you'll let me."
"What's in it for you?"
"That's a fucking stupid question."
"Got a bet with Slider? You'll breed the maverick before graduation?"
"Nobody places bets against a sure thing."
"Fuck you."
"We can be good," Ice said, leaning in close. "I know you felt it, even before you kissed me."
"I didn't kiss you. You kissed me."
Iceman snorted in disagreement, and Pete slammed his still full beer bottle down. "Listen--endorphins aside--I don't actually want you. I don't like you, and I don't want you near me. O-KAY?" He full-on shouted the last two syllables into the master's smirking face, setting Iceman back out of his personal space and making everyone in the airport bar turn and look.
Standing and throwing down money for the drink he never even tasted, Maverick went home alone.
***
After leaving Viper's lovely, family-filled home (his thrall wore her shimmering words on her wrist. Always with me, ) Maverick returned to the Top Gun program just in time to graduate. The sea of dress whites and air of accomplishment and celebration was absolutely soul crushing without Goose there to share in it.
But Goose would want him to be here. So he was here. Maverick spent the whole time with his hands in fists and his jaw clenched. He was not going to cry. He was done crying.
Iceman and Slider won the trophy. No surprise there.
Christ , Iceman looked good in white. Maverick averted his eyes, flicking away the memory of that searing hot kiss. (Seriously, that kind of thing was the last thing he needed. Why couldn't his body seem to get that? And even if he was going to be claimed, it certainly would not be a walking rulebook like Tom Kazansky.)
***
Iceman had been worried when Maverick was selected to fly a life and death mission. But, against the odds, Maverick found his way out of the darkness of his grief during the heat of enemy engagement. He stuck with his wingman. He worked as a team. He saved the day.
Celebrating on deck of the carrier, Iceman knew what he wanted.
"You!" He cut through the crowd straight toward Pete and took his hand. "You can be my wingman any day."
The crowd around them went instantly silent as the heart of Iceman's words shimmered into existence in the air. Master Words.
Be my wingman .
Maverick's eyes widened, but his smile never faltered and he said, "Bullshit. You can be mine."
And with that unorthodox vow of consent, Iceman's words sealed themselves across Maverick's bare inner forearm. They glowed there, hot and real. With them came this overwhelming sense of connection. Kinship. Loyalty.
The men around them went crazy , now double celebrating.
***
Pete's master led him through the maze of the ship to a stateroom and closed the door. They would have privacy here because after that little show, Iceman's bunkmate would find somewhere else to pass the night. Away from the crowd, it really pressed in on Maverick what he just did. His forearm still tingled with the fresh branding.
His heart was in his ears.
That just happened. He just consented to his first ever claim, thinking very little about it beforehand, literally leaping into it just because of a fleeting feeling… and in front of everybody .
"Breathe, Mav," Iceman said in a calming but still authoritative tone. "It's going to be okay."
Pete felt the will of his master settle around him, and he could not help but to obey. He breathed. But breath only ushered in more panic. "I… I can't believe I did that!"
Iceman stayed by the door, leaning on it. How could he be so calm at a moment like this? "Neither can I, but I'm glad you did."
Pete turned on Iceman, feeling trapped and pissed off. "Why the hell did you do it like that? In front of everybody ?"
Iceman grinned his cocksure grin, letting his eyes roam hungrily over Maverick, and bumped his shoulder. "Felt right... Isn't that why you said yes?"
Pete snarled, "It was a lapse in judgement. Undo it."
Iceman snorted. "Jesus, it really is your first claim, isn't it? You know they can't just be undone that fast, right? It'll take time and distance and mutual intent to break it."
"Or death."
Ice jumped his eyebrows. "Cute threat."
"I don't want to be claimed," Pete said through his teeth.
"That's just not true," Iceman said, and he was right, of course. He finally moved across the room. Pete turned away, but Ice put his arms around him anyway. "Master Words only stick where they're wanted." He lifted Pete's arm and traced the pads of his fingers over the sensitive, glimmering words that began above the wrist and reached the crook of the elbow. "From the moment you took them, I started feeling exactly what you want, and everything you need. You can't lie to me."
Pete trembled. "I was weak for just a second. But--"
"But nothing." Iceman said into his ear. "There is nothing wrong with this." He kissed Pete's neck. Pete melted and turned, pressing into the safe place just under Iceman's strong jaw. His throat smelled of dried sweat, a master's musk so potent it made Pete weak in the knees.
In the quiet moment, standing in one another's arms, flight suits mashed together, the sounds of the flight deck above them, the gigantic tin can ship rattling and banging all around them, Pete realized that he could feel Iceman in a way he never felt anyone ever.
He knew that Ice was happy. Excited. More than excited, he was aroused. His spontaneous proclamation being accepted like that in front of fifty cheering guys, most of whom he did not actually know, had made him feel like a king . Invincible.
Pete found himself smiling into Iceman's collarbones. He schooled it quickly, however, when Iceman pulled away saying, "Let's get out of these flight suits."
"I'm not going to fuck you," Pete said.
Ice grunted.
"I'm not!"
Ice grabbed him by the chin and kissed him deeply. Pete allowed it, enjoyed it, but then broke away. Ice let him out of the kiss but still held his jaw as he studied him a moment and then relented. "You're such a tease."
"Because of your soap opera proposal out there, every single inch of these walls has a sailor's ear pressed to it," Maverick said.
"What, are you shy or something?" Iceman asked as he pulled off his suit. Underneath, he wore the standard white tee and briefs.
"We're back on land in two days," Pete said as he stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear, too.
"Lemme see it," Ice said, sitting on the bottom bunk. Maverick extended his forearm, drifting to stand in the space between Ice's open knees. Ice took him by the elbow and examined the words on the soft skin of his inner arm.
Be my wingman.
The average claiming script tended toward flowy, delicate lettering. But not this. It was almost ostentatious in size. The font was a bold, capital lettered print, like just about any military property stamp, and the entire thing was a foot in length, at least. Also breaking from tradition, the wording was not overly sentimental nor was it archaically stiff and solemn. Maverick loved it more than he was prepared to say.
Ice grinned at it. Maverick could feel that his master loved it, too. He was proud. He was happy.
With a swoop in his gut like he was on a carnival ride, Maverick realized he did not feel alone.
***
Iceman felt his thrall's emotional realization and his turbulent thoughts surrounding it. He took him by the hands and squeezed, looking up at him. "You're always going to have me, Pete."
Maverick looked pale and unsure. His eyes were unfocused as he looked inward and shook his head. "I've done a lot of stupid, shit, Kazansky, but never anything on this level. Inthralling myself to you just because Goose wasn't there to high five me after the mission is so fucking reckless. Pathetic, really."
"Breathe, Mav." Ice ordered. "It was a little foolish, but you lucked out. You didn't get one of those loser masters who need to kick their thrall's around to feel like the boss. Ya got me. You've flown against me and with me, which means you know me. So you know I'm not gonna let ya down."
Pete was still panicking, so Ice flexed his more dominant will power, and then watched as Maverick began to shed his anxiety. He could feel Maverick come to terms with it. Yes, maybe he had made a dumb move, but maybe a friend had his back so it really would be okay.
"Thanks, man," Pete breathed. He thumped Ice on the shoulder. "I think you're right. You're a great choice for my training claim."
Punched in the gut, Ice said, "Wait, what? No."
"No? No, what?"
"I… Pete, this isn't a training bond for me. I mean for it to be forever."
Maverick snorted. "Oh, come on."
"No. I do!"
Maverick's smile faltered and the laughter left his eyes to be replaced with astonishment as he felt the truth of Iceman's words through the bond.
"What the fuck , Tom?" And what a moment for the first time his thrall ever used his given name. "I have never had a claim before! I'm Maverick ! Of course my first ever bond is going to be a training bond!"
"Training bonds are a modern idea. Our grandparents didn't do training bonds."
"Well maybe they should have!" Pete snapped. "We barely know each other! We met eight weeks ago, and we've been enemies literally until twenty minutes ago."
"It's so cute you thought we were enemies ," Tom said, meaning it. Seriously. Pete Mitchell was adorable in between all the times he was infuriating.
"This isn't a joke , Kazansky!"
"No, it's not, Mitchell. Just calm down and trust me, alright? This is it. It's the big one. You're gonna be happy. I promise."
"You can't know that!"
"Okay, okay, calm down. I promise, if you ever need me to let you go, I will." That eased him. Until Ice added, "But you won't ever need me to."
Maverick scoffed, begrudgingly charmed by the show of confidence. "You really are full of yourself, aren't you?"
Iceman just smiled at him and patted the bed. After a moment's hesitation, Maverick sat on the edge with him. He realized this was essentially their first date, and what a weird one it was. They were both in white underwear and white t-shirts and nothing else, locked away in a cramped, uninspiring stateroom. The walls were beige steel with huge rivets at tidy intervals. The ceiling was crossed this way and that with bare pipes. It smelled of their socks. Apart from the usual environmental noise of life on a carrier ship, it was silent.
Iceman lightly traced the lettering on Pete's arm. Maverick could feel Iceman's admiration of it. Smirking at him, Ice murmured, "You so wanted my claim."
Maverick scoffed. "I might have been curious. Trust me, I'm regretting it."
Tom leaned into Pete, whispering, "No, you're not."
No, he wasn't. Not right this second. Not with Iceman–all hot flesh and alpha musk—pressing into his personal space like he was. Dominant, steady, hungry, but gentle. Tom had truly gorgeous eyes. And in the soul link, new and still raw, Maverick could feel Tom's happiness.
That was the moment, though it would take weeks and weeks, so many arguments, sweat, tears, and a little bit of Tom's blood, for him to admit it, but that was the moment Pete Mitchell realized he was exactly where he belonged.
Thirty Six Years Later
An Award Winning photograph, published world wide, hangs on the wall in the Fighter Weapons School entry hall. It is called Devotion, but the public at large knows it more colloquially as the "be my wingman picture."
The camera had captured a one in a million shot. It shows two fighter pilots among a crowd of men in naval aviation uniform, shaking hands but also literally in the act of sealing a mate claim. Not only are the Master Words bold and black in the air between them, but peeking from under the pushed up sleeve of his flight suit, the vow is just beginning to appear on the thrall's forearm.
The photograph was instantly famous for being a question and an answer immortalized in a single shot, for being a vow cemented between heroes, for the love plain on both their faces. For Pete Mitchell as he stops to admire it, it's a snapshot of the bravest and best thing he ever did.
fin