Kiss With a Fist for neery
Author: scriptophile
Title: Kiss With a Fist
Recipient: neery
Skaters/Pairings: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1064
Warnings: Mild kinkiness
Prompt: Kinky sex. Evan likes to be slapped around, or humiliated a little, and is maybe a little ashamed of his kinkier side. Can be as kinky or rough as you'd like to make it - the kinkier the better, really. Just no watersports, please. If you want to include something about how being hurt helps Evan calm down, ala Frank slapping him before Nationals, I'd love that. (Uh, without actual Frank-related kinkyness, that is.)
Disclaimer: The events portrayed in this story are fictional and do not reflect on the actual people written about.
A/N: I had tons of fun writing this! I'm a fan of kinky, but I've never actually sat down and written anything in this vein, so yay for a challenge! I just hope I did the amazing prompt justice.
Summary: Johnny reminisces about the past.
Johnny slid his cock into Evan's open and waiting mouth. There was something undeniable and undefinable and erotic about the way they moved together now, after years of practice, trial and error. They were both supremely confident in their ability to fuck together.
Evan lay naked, limbs akimbo, while Johnny slowly rolled his hips in a smooth and practiced fashion, the artistry the skating world remembered him for present even here, in the most intimate of moments as his cock, hard and slicked with Evan's saliva, slid over pink and swollen lips.
It was in fact that very artistry, that confidence that so often boldly straddled the line between waifish beauty and predatory grace, which had drawn these two men together after so many years of bitter words and bitter rivalries. Evan had retired into near-obscurity for nearly three years. Johnny had gone on to court the media and become a celebrity personality unlike any other, splitting his time between runways, talk shows, and the ice-- strictly as a choreographer, of course.
It was a few months before the start of the '13-'14 season when the axis upon which the United States skating world rotated upon tilted and changed. Evan Lysacek had announced his intentions to return for Sochi-- with Johnny Weir at his side, both of them nearly thirty, chasing a dream already realized once that was better left to the youth of the sport.
The combination of their talents had imploded disastrously at Evan's first competition of the season.
Nagging injuries and clashing personalities played out tragically in front of millions and it wasn't long before the rumors, most of them true, started to surface, gnawing away at the already fragile public image the two of them presented.
Redemption had come in the unlikely form of Johnny's palm colliding with Evan's cheek during their last private practice before Skate America. The sound of flesh against flesh had hardly faded from the cold air of the rink before they were on one another, grabbing and claiming all that could be seized there on the ice, against the boards and beneath the harsh arena lighting.
Panting for breath, come drying on black work out clothes, their relationship began to transform. In this way, their release of passions had sent them down the road leading toward the gold that now rested in a tasteful frame in their kitchen, Johnny's favorite room in the house.
Johnny sighed almost wistfully as he continued to fuck Evan's wet and well-trained mouth, his musings taking him back years now, to the night their joint gold had been won, before the final scores had been handed out, back to how Evan had practically crawled on his hands and knees to kneel in front of the hotel bed that Johnny had been perched on, his face nuzzling up against Johnny's thigh as he all but whimpered out his request.
“Hit me,” Evan had simply said, dark eyes clear of shame as they watched one another. Johnny's fingers had tightened their hold on the bland covers of the bed that dominated the Olympic village room that Evan had been assigned.
“You want me to hit you?” The words sounded strange to his ears, felt heavy-- and full of promise-- in his mouth as he spoke them.
“Don't act like you don't know what I'm asking for, why I'm asking for it,” Evan had replied, rising up on his knees now, almost able to look Johnny directly in the eye-- a challenge. So like Evan, to have turned his anxiety and crippling fear of failure into... this. With a mix of exasperated fondness and pulse-quickening lust that was now so familiar to him, Johnny rose to meet that challenge.
The first slap hurt Johnny more than it hurt Evan, he was sure of that. Every nerve ending from his wrist to his finger tips tingled and Johnny didn't quite know how to feel about the way his dick jumped in his pants at the red blooming in a rosy blush in the form of his hand on Evan's cheek.
The second strike was across the other cheek, backhanded, Evan's stubble scraping over Johnny's well-moisturized skin. He was panting, his chest heaving and hand stinging.
“Is that what you want?” His voice had betrayed none of the uncertainty that had filled his stomach in that moment, and Evan had meekly nodded and lifted his chin, eyes closed as he quietly asked for another.
Johnny was jolted back to the present as he felt the lightest scrape of teeth over his cock, and he moaned, low and guttural. He braced his hands on the headboard, fucking into Evan's mouth in earnest now, taken in by Evan's wide-blown pupils, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked greedily, hands gripping Johnny's hips.
“Fuck,” Johnny panted out, and Evan made a sound of agreement low in his throat, causing Johnny to shiver as he shifted to his knees, hips slanting downward. Evan grabbed those offered hips, setting the pace himself as he held Johnny still, sliding his mouth up and up to take in as much of Johnny as he could, the motions well-practiced but still raw with need that had not cooled over the years of their relationship.
There was little aside from sensation now, not a coherent thought passing between them. Johnny bent backward, his hand wrapping around Evan's leaking erection. A moan bubbled up in Evan's throat and Johnny's smirk was broad and proud as he twisted his wrist just so, bringing his hand up and down, up and down, in opposite rhythm. Evan came first, his entire body tightening save for his mouth, which went momentarily slack as he arched upward, lifting Johnny's knees off the bed.
Johnny took the opportunity to slip from Evan's mouth, rising up over him as he brought his come-slicked hand from Evan's dick to wrap around his own. Evan whimpered needfully and licked his lips while Johnny stroked himself, coming not a few moments later, come splattering onto Evan's lips, cheeks, and dripping down to his chin despite his best efforts to lick himself clean.
Johnny leaned down to help him, grabbing a soft cloth on the bedside table, kept there just for this purpose, as he gently wiped Evan's face clean, pressing a chaste kiss to wrecked and abused lips.
-END-
Title: Kiss With a Fist
Recipient: neery
Skaters/Pairings: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1064
Warnings: Mild kinkiness
Prompt: Kinky sex. Evan likes to be slapped around, or humiliated a little, and is maybe a little ashamed of his kinkier side. Can be as kinky or rough as you'd like to make it - the kinkier the better, really. Just no watersports, please. If you want to include something about how being hurt helps Evan calm down, ala Frank slapping him before Nationals, I'd love that. (Uh, without actual Frank-related kinkyness, that is.)
Disclaimer: The events portrayed in this story are fictional and do not reflect on the actual people written about.
A/N: I had tons of fun writing this! I'm a fan of kinky, but I've never actually sat down and written anything in this vein, so yay for a challenge! I just hope I did the amazing prompt justice.
Summary: Johnny reminisces about the past.
Johnny slid his cock into Evan's open and waiting mouth. There was something undeniable and undefinable and erotic about the way they moved together now, after years of practice, trial and error. They were both supremely confident in their ability to fuck together.
Evan lay naked, limbs akimbo, while Johnny slowly rolled his hips in a smooth and practiced fashion, the artistry the skating world remembered him for present even here, in the most intimate of moments as his cock, hard and slicked with Evan's saliva, slid over pink and swollen lips.
It was in fact that very artistry, that confidence that so often boldly straddled the line between waifish beauty and predatory grace, which had drawn these two men together after so many years of bitter words and bitter rivalries. Evan had retired into near-obscurity for nearly three years. Johnny had gone on to court the media and become a celebrity personality unlike any other, splitting his time between runways, talk shows, and the ice-- strictly as a choreographer, of course.
It was a few months before the start of the '13-'14 season when the axis upon which the United States skating world rotated upon tilted and changed. Evan Lysacek had announced his intentions to return for Sochi-- with Johnny Weir at his side, both of them nearly thirty, chasing a dream already realized once that was better left to the youth of the sport.
The combination of their talents had imploded disastrously at Evan's first competition of the season.
Nagging injuries and clashing personalities played out tragically in front of millions and it wasn't long before the rumors, most of them true, started to surface, gnawing away at the already fragile public image the two of them presented.
Redemption had come in the unlikely form of Johnny's palm colliding with Evan's cheek during their last private practice before Skate America. The sound of flesh against flesh had hardly faded from the cold air of the rink before they were on one another, grabbing and claiming all that could be seized there on the ice, against the boards and beneath the harsh arena lighting.
Panting for breath, come drying on black work out clothes, their relationship began to transform. In this way, their release of passions had sent them down the road leading toward the gold that now rested in a tasteful frame in their kitchen, Johnny's favorite room in the house.
Johnny sighed almost wistfully as he continued to fuck Evan's wet and well-trained mouth, his musings taking him back years now, to the night their joint gold had been won, before the final scores had been handed out, back to how Evan had practically crawled on his hands and knees to kneel in front of the hotel bed that Johnny had been perched on, his face nuzzling up against Johnny's thigh as he all but whimpered out his request.
“Hit me,” Evan had simply said, dark eyes clear of shame as they watched one another. Johnny's fingers had tightened their hold on the bland covers of the bed that dominated the Olympic village room that Evan had been assigned.
“You want me to hit you?” The words sounded strange to his ears, felt heavy-- and full of promise-- in his mouth as he spoke them.
“Don't act like you don't know what I'm asking for, why I'm asking for it,” Evan had replied, rising up on his knees now, almost able to look Johnny directly in the eye-- a challenge. So like Evan, to have turned his anxiety and crippling fear of failure into... this. With a mix of exasperated fondness and pulse-quickening lust that was now so familiar to him, Johnny rose to meet that challenge.
The first slap hurt Johnny more than it hurt Evan, he was sure of that. Every nerve ending from his wrist to his finger tips tingled and Johnny didn't quite know how to feel about the way his dick jumped in his pants at the red blooming in a rosy blush in the form of his hand on Evan's cheek.
The second strike was across the other cheek, backhanded, Evan's stubble scraping over Johnny's well-moisturized skin. He was panting, his chest heaving and hand stinging.
“Is that what you want?” His voice had betrayed none of the uncertainty that had filled his stomach in that moment, and Evan had meekly nodded and lifted his chin, eyes closed as he quietly asked for another.
Johnny was jolted back to the present as he felt the lightest scrape of teeth over his cock, and he moaned, low and guttural. He braced his hands on the headboard, fucking into Evan's mouth in earnest now, taken in by Evan's wide-blown pupils, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked greedily, hands gripping Johnny's hips.
“Fuck,” Johnny panted out, and Evan made a sound of agreement low in his throat, causing Johnny to shiver as he shifted to his knees, hips slanting downward. Evan grabbed those offered hips, setting the pace himself as he held Johnny still, sliding his mouth up and up to take in as much of Johnny as he could, the motions well-practiced but still raw with need that had not cooled over the years of their relationship.
There was little aside from sensation now, not a coherent thought passing between them. Johnny bent backward, his hand wrapping around Evan's leaking erection. A moan bubbled up in Evan's throat and Johnny's smirk was broad and proud as he twisted his wrist just so, bringing his hand up and down, up and down, in opposite rhythm. Evan came first, his entire body tightening save for his mouth, which went momentarily slack as he arched upward, lifting Johnny's knees off the bed.
Johnny took the opportunity to slip from Evan's mouth, rising up over him as he brought his come-slicked hand from Evan's dick to wrap around his own. Evan whimpered needfully and licked his lips while Johnny stroked himself, coming not a few moments later, come splattering onto Evan's lips, cheeks, and dripping down to his chin despite his best efforts to lick himself clean.
Johnny leaned down to help him, grabbing a soft cloth on the bedside table, kept there just for this purpose, as he gently wiped Evan's face clean, pressing a chaste kiss to wrecked and abused lips.
-END-