This One Is A Gem - Tumblr Posts

Geez, I want a jealous Tom Kazansky rn please.

Wrong Answer, Sweetheart

This man? Jealous? Possessive? Wherever did you get that idea? @juniebugg and @redpandabel this is for you.

Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x F!Reader Word Count: 3600 Warnings: Smut, possessive behavior, jealousy, dirty talk Minors DNI

The O Club is full to bursting by the time you arrive. Which is to be expected on a Friday. Officers and civvies mingling with drinks in hand.

Ice had called you earlier, the patter of a shower in the background as he told you that he and the guys were headed over to grab a drink once they were done in the locker room. He asked you to meet him there. The thing the two of you have going on is still relatively new, so you were quick to agree, your finger twirling in the phone cable at the thought of Ice leaning over the phone in little more than a towel. You wrapped up your work for the day, drove home for a change of clothes, and then walked over to the club, fully expecting to be going home with Ice at the end of the night.

You spot him — well, more accurately, you spot Slider (the man's too damn tall) — in the corner of the bar near the pool table, surrounded by the rest of his class, and push your way through the crowd. When you reach the group, you brush your hand over Ice's arm, sidling up to him and meeting his eyes through your long lashes. "Hey."

And for a heart-stopping moment, he fixes you with a smile-

"Well, look who it is," Wolfman drawls, Hollywood whistling as you settle against Ice's side.

"Lookin' mighty fine today, Mrs. Ice," Hollywood says with a wink, and you chuckle at the harmless flirtation. They all know you're off-limits, but Ice's hand tightens around your waist all the same, and he shoots Hollywood a glare while he takes a sip of his beer.

Wolfman isn't deterred. " Mighty fine. " If anything, Ice's annoyance spurs him on. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a sister, would you?"

"She'd be out of your league, too, Wolf," Slider says, earning a satisfied snort from Ice and howls from the rest of the pilots. After that, the conversation drifts back to where it had derailed when you first joined.

Eventually, you decide that you need a drink. You try to bring Ice with you, but he's busy detailing all the reasons why what Chipper said is categorically wrong. He gently shakes your hand from his and leaves you to wander to the bar on your own.

Your lips press into a tight line. You open your mouth to say something — why invite me along for a drink if you aren't going to spend time with me? — but stop short. That won't get you anywhere, not in front of his colleagues.

You stomp your way through the crowd until you're pressed against the smooth, lacquered wood of the bar and settle in for the long wait until the bartender can take your order. You're drawing figure eights in the condensation left behind by someone's glass when someone shoves themself into the bar beside you

"Hey!" A smile parts your lips. Mav. You pull the pilot into a hug. "When did you get here?" Mav is easy to talk with, and the two of you fall into an easy conversation. He asks you about your job, smiling even though you know he must be bored out of his mind while you go on about your spreadsheets.

It doesn't take long for the conversation to turn flirty, as things with Mav tend to do. He brushes imaginary dust off your shoulder, places a hand against the small of your back to steady you when some rowdy patrons knock you off balance, leans in close so he can hear you over the music and other conversations. You know that he doesn't mean anything by it. Not with you. It's just who he is — all dare and charm and green eyes.

Every so often, your attention flickers over to Ice, but he's still deep in conversation.

When the bartender finally makes it over to you, you ask him for a beer — whatever's on tap — and Mav leans in to add his and Goose's next round on top of it. "Put it on my tab."

Mouth open in mock surprise, you turn to face the pilot. "Are you buying me a drink, Mav?"

"Someone's got to," he says, eyebrow raised as he chances his own look toward Ice.

"Pretty bold of you."

"I'm told some women like bold."

"Some?" Mav looks down and to the side at your question as if he's embarrassed. And that's something you weren't expecting. You wonder who the lucky lady is. "Is the notorious Maverick having girl troubles?" His eyes meet yours, and you know that you're right. As the bartender returns with your drinks, you bite your bottom lip to hold in a guffaw. "Oh c'mon, Mav. A pretty boy like you?"

A hand slams on the bar between you and Maverick no later than those words leave your lips. You jump, eyes blown wide in surprise.

"Money for the lady's drink."

"Hey, Ice." Mav stumbles back against the bar, a mischievous glint in his green eyes as Ice forcibly shoulders his way between you and the other pilot.

"Mitchell." He shoots Mav a look that could kill. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Thought that was pretty obvious," Mav says. "I was buying a pretty girl a drink." He has the audacity to wink at you, and Ice shoves himself further into his space.

"You better watch your mouth," Ice snaps.

A Cheshire grin takes over Maverick's face. "I've certainly got my eyes on someone's mouth."

Instead of responding, Ice reaches out and grabs your hand, still glaring at Maverick. "We're leaving."

"Don't be ridiculous," you say, slipping your hand from his as he'd done to you earlier. "We just got here."

"Yeah, Ice." And Mav knows precisely what he's doing with that mocking tone. Ice stands to his full height, looking down his nose at Maverick, who is more than a couple inches shorter than him with the way he's casually leaning against the bar. "Don't be ridiculous."

A hand grabs your arm around the bicep and leads — practically drags — you out of the bar. Mav gives you a half-hearted salute, all three drinks in his hands as he disappears into the crowd like the shit-stirring goblin he is.

Ice escorts you from the bar in record time. His face is an indecipherable mask as he brings you to the passenger side of his car, opens the door, and crowds forward until you have no choice but to sit in the leather seat. He towers over you. "What the hell was that?"

"Which part? You ditching me in a Navy bar, or you dragging me out of said bar?"

Light from the building plays across his jaw as it tenses, but that's the only tell that anything is wrong. Otherwise, his expression gives nothing away. "Why were you talking with Mitchell?" It's less a question than a demand for an answer.

You can't help but scoff. "You can't ditch your girl at a bar and then act surprised when someone gives her a little attention."

"You like that, huh? The attention of other guys."

And it stings. Hot and cold at the same time. Like frostbite. Two can play at that game. "Nothing wrong with a little variety," you bite back. It's a lie; normally, Ice would know that, but his eyes are still glacial when he steps back to close your door and hops into the driver's seat. He sits there for a handful of seconds, not looking at you. Not starting the car. So you make a split-second decision and place your hand on the door pull, popping it open.

"Where do you think you're going?" His eyes bore into the back of your head. It's enough to stop you in your tracks.

"For a drink."

"With Mitchell."

You glare back at him, exasperated. "Yeah. With Mav." You like that, huh? The attention of other guys. "Don't wait up. I'm sure he can give me a ride home."

Your eyes stay locked, neither of you blinking as the implication hangs heavy in the air.

"You're not going anywhere." You close the door as Ice starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.

The ride to Ice's housing is silent. Ice eyes the road with a single-minded determination, his face an impassive mask, but his fists grip the steering wheel harder than necessary. You look resolutely out the passenger window as dark, sandy beaches turn into telephone poles, mailboxes, fences, and finally, Ice's driveway. Ice doesn't help you out of the car when you arrive, just unlocks the front door and expects you to follow.

You find him in the kitchen, sipping bourbon and pouring another two fingers' worth of the amber liquid into a rocks glass for you. But you turn the drink down when he tries to hand it to you. "I'm not thirsty."

"But you'll let Mitchell buy you a drink."

"At least he offered." You wanted him to buy you a drink, but he'd been too busy for you.

"That why you let him touch you?"

Your eyes roll. "Is that what this is about?"

"That is exactly what this is about." Ice throws your drink back in one go, leaving both glasses on the counter before crowding you against the wall. The glint behind blue eyes tells you you're in trouble. "You are mine ." Each word is bitten out, and you can't help how you react, head tilting back and lips parting in anticipation of a kiss that never comes. Instead, Ice leans in until his breath caresses your ear. "Or do you need a reminder?"

You'd love one. Instead, you say: "I don't belong to anybody ."

A deceptively soft kiss is pressed to the spot where your jaw meets the long line of your neck. "Wrong answer, sweetheart." One of Ice's hands grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you into a bruising kiss, his tongue tasting of vanilla, oak, and caramel from the bourbon. You moan helplessly as his teeth catch your lower lip before he releases it in favor of sucking a deep mark over your pulse. One you won't be able to hide. One he'll be sure to parade you around in with his arm draped around your waist or hand tucked into your back pocket.

And a part of you likes the idea of that. Shouldn't , but does, and it sends a thrill through you.

"Get on your knees." Heat blossoms in your chest, mouth watering as your tongue runs over your lips to chase the hints of bourbon Ice has left behind. Placing your hands on Ice's chest, you scratch your nails down his front until your knees hit the kitchen tile. "You know what to do." You do. Your fingers trace the outline of him where he's already straining through his pants, but he stops that real quick.

His fingers catch your chin and angle your face up. "Don't tease." Then, while he still clutches your chin, you blindly reach for his belt, the metal clinking open before you pop the button and pull down his zipper. His other hand pulls his cock free and slaps it against your cheek before brushing it against your full lips. "Open up."

Your pink tongue pokes past your lips in invitation as Ice guides his cock into your mouth. His taste on your tongue never fails to pull a groan from you. Ice encourages you with a hiss. You lick around the fat tip before enthusiastically taking more of him into your hot mouth.

"That's it," he encourages as you get into a rhythm, bobbing up and down on his cock. You hollow your cheeks as you release the head with a pop to kiss and lick all along the shaft, lips dark and slick with spit as you take him into your mouth once again. "That's my girl." You moan around his cock in your mouth — my girl — the vibrations knocking Ice's head back, his hips jerking forward until you're gagging, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Look so good chocking on my cock." The praise has you practically purring, and you pull off his cock for a quick breath before taking him as far down as you can, ignoring the tears as they track down your cheeks and swallow around him. You're rewarded with another sinful groan that goes straight to the heat between your legs.

A hand pulls you off of him, Ice's other hand coming down to fist at his cock, its glide slick. And he hasn't done this before, but you keep your mouth open, looking up at him through long lashes when his breath catches, and the first rope of his release bursts salty across your tongue. When he's done, he catches the cum that's missed your lips with his thumb and pushes it against your tongue, and you suck it down with the rest of him.

Ice is on you again as soon as you stand up, the crisscross of the kitchen tiles still freshly imprinted on your knees. Your back is once again pressed to the wall, one of your legs pulled up to circle his hip, blue eyes sharp as his hand slips beneath the waist of your jean shorts to find you soaking.

"Look at you," he murmurs, fingers gliding over your puffy lips. "Who's got you this wet, huh?" You huff and look away, and he sinks a finger into you to the knuckle. No resistance. "Eyes on me, sweetheart." And the endearment sounds vicious from his lips. You don't want to look, but you can't help it. He's magnetic.

You whimper and grind your swollen clit against his palm when he slips another finger into you, but Ice pulls back. His fingers return to running up and down the length of your heat — "Who?" — barely-there touches a far cry from what he knows you need.

"You know who," you say, swiveling your hips and pulling him closer to you with the leg wrapped around his hip and down his leg. His fingers start up again, and you let out a breathy chuckle, thinking you've won.

Ice's fingers skillfully build you up higher and higher until: "Yeah, but I want to hear you say it." You clench desperately around nothing when his fingers withdraw. Your high receding like the tide until it has well and truly slipped through your fingers and all you can do is whine. Once he's sure you're not going to cum, his fingers press back into you, massaging at your g-spot, and you arch into him, keening. "Who?"

"Fuck, Ice. You. "

"That's not my name."

Another frustrated groan tumbles from your lips as his fingers leave your core to ruck your shirt up beneath your arms, pulling down the cups of your bra until your breasts pop out. He attacks a nipple with lips and teeth and tongue. "You, Tom. You, you, you ."

He pulls off of you when you arch into his mouth. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" His lips ghost up your neck with a final lick to your peaked nipple, drawing goosebumps in their wake. "What do you want me to do about it?" he whispers directly into your ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth. His hips rock against yours, pressing hot and hard against your clothed clit, fingers skimming along the waist of your shorts, and you whimper. Ready for round two.

"Touch me. Please."

Ice releases your leg, hooks his fingers in your belt loops, and drags you away from the wall. Then, faster than you can keep up with while your mind is swimming, he bends you over the kitchen table. Talented fingers reach around to unbutton your shorts and pull them down your long legs. You peek at him over your shoulder, shivering at the chill of fresh air against your slick folds. Ice's hands are back on you, but they aren't touching you where you need him to, fingers skirting around your slick heat to tease your upper thighs. You groan.

"What? You said to touch you."

"That the best you got, Ice?" You yelp, back arching when Ice's palm connects with your asscheek, its sting blazing and blurring into pleasure.

"I'm just getting started."

His fingers delve back into your heat and yours grip the edge of the table, eyes falling shut as you press your cheek against the polished wood, and you moan.

When you open your eyes again, you have a clear line of sight to the window at the front of the assignment. The glass is blocked by a near-translucent sheet — calling it a curtain would probably be too generous. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to fend off a groan as Ice's fingers disappear from you, the sound of his zipper soon following. "We should probably take this upstairs," you suggest, neck craning as your eyes lock with his over your shoulder.

Ice runs the thick head of his cock over your cunt, leans over you, and his fingers are back on your jaw. He redirects your gaze to the window, the fabric billowing in the gentle night breeze. "Thought you liked the attention," he hisses into your ear, and then he's sinking into you in a single thrust.

He doesn't give you time to adjust to him, just picks up a slow tempo — dragging his hips back until you're squeezing around nothing and filling you back up until your walls are fluttering around him and your cheeks are flushed. "We just started," he murmurs, "and you're already close, aren't you?"

You want to say something clever about how he's brought you the edge a couple times now, but he fucks the words out of you, chuckling as you make a strangled noise.

"Bet Mitchell couldn't fuck you like this, huh?"

And you know it's supposed to be rhetorical, but you can't help yourself. "Bet he'd think of something," you pant. "He's creative like that."

"Pretty boy wouldn't know what to do with a girl like you."

"You spend a lot of time thinking about Mav fucking me?"

Ice presses your cheek back into the table, his hand resting between your shoulder blades so that your ass sticks up in the air. "Shut up." His pace picks up with the steady clap of skin on skin and the creak of the table against the tile floor. And the spring in your abdomen coils so tight that if he keeps fucking you like that, you'll reach nirvana in no time.

"You're mine, " he all but growls, biting at the junction of your neck and shoulder and sucking. "Mine to treat. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck whenever and wherever —" his hand fists in your hair, pulling until you're staring straight out the window to the deserted road "—I want." Your body spasms, walls fluttering around his cock before it disappears, and you could scream , but all that comes out is a whimper. "And you'll cum when I let you."

"You fucking dick," you seethe.

"You love my fucking dick." He thrusts back into you, pulling out again when you roll back to meet him halfway. "Don't you?" You throw your head back and keen when he bottoms out in you again, grinding that perfect cock against your sweet spot and making you see stars. "Tell me."

"I fucking love your cock."

"Yeah, you do." Ice rewards you with another hard thrust. "Whose pussy is this?"

"Yours." You clench down around him, unable to help the roll of your hips against his. "All yours. Only yours."

"You sure, princess? Sounded like you didn't need me earlier," he says, and it's smug now. Mocking. "Sure you don't want me to call Mitchell to finish you off?"

"He couldn't handle me," you whine. "Couldn't treat me good like you do. Pretty boy couldn't — fuck!" You're babbling now, Ice's pace picking up to fuck you stupid, but you don't care that the neighbors can hear you as long as Ice keeps fucking you like that. As long as he keeps hitting that spot and his balls keep slapping your clit, keeps kissing your neck, keeps grunting in your ear.

"Couldn't what, sweetheart?" His hands pull your hips back to meet his.

"Couldn't give me what I need. Not like you can. Fuck! Not like you. Never like you."

You're so close that it hurts. "Please," you sob, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. "Please, Tom. Please let me cum. Please, please, please. I'm yours. All yours. Please."

"Don't worry, baby," he croons. "I've got you."

And then you're dissolving into pleasure, melting into the wood grain of the table as Ice continues to chase his own end. He pulls out when his hips stutter, hand on his cock, cumming all over your pussy, thick strands of white dripping down your thighs.

His.

Instead of letting you up, Ice leans back over you, taking his time to suck more marks into the unblemished canvas of your shoulders, neck, jaw.

“Ice,” you whine, your earlier passion replaced with heart-swelling annoyance. “You can’t do this every time someone talks to me at the bar.”

Ice smiles against your skin, calloused hands running a path down your body until they reach your soiled thighs and give you a mischievous squeeze. “Guess you’ll just have to be more careful.”

You guffaw. “Of what? Talking with people?”

“You’re mine, and I don’t share,” he hums, nuzzling his agreement into the crook of your neck. “ Especially not with Mitchell.”