Fic: Speechless
Title: Speechless
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 4433
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: We've been meeting this way for a while/Always keeping our hearts in denial/But the rules of the game are as such/There are some things You never should rush/With the way that you're looking tonight/It was only a matter of time/Before I got so overwhelmed/And I just could not help myself
-Raul Malo
Notes: I fully intend to blame this story on a few factors: one being this song, which I love to pieces :D, and of course... this fic has to be dedicated to the world's most well-loved foot massager ever! (NSFW!) Also a billion thanks to beta-pixie!!
There's a very good reason why Johnny tries his damnedest not to drink, especially when he's around… well, anyone. Aside from the fact that his waist is about as big around as most people's thighs and therefore can barely take more than a splash of heavily diluted alcohol, there's the little problem of Johnny's very big mouth; even when sober, he sees little reason to silence himself.
So when he's drunk, well, all those little reasons seem far less important than before.
"I love you."
Words no one should ever drunkenly slur to anyone. Ever. Especially when he can't remember if it was a dream or an inebriated stupor that led him to whisper against an ear he has to stand on tiptoe to reach. The arms around his waist tighten for a brief moment before they relax, a stripe of heat as fingers sneak beneath his shirt to touch skin and Johnny shivers.
"I'm not allowed to have sex, you know," he continues on. The taller, firm body holding him up and walking him down an endless hall to a hotel room shakes with soft laughter. He thinks he hears a response, something about most of them being denied that activity, and Johnny grins at hearing it called by such a tame turn of phrase.
"Fucking, say it," he teases. The wall holds him up while fingers poke at the bag slung over his shoulder to look for a keycard. "Say it, say it, c'mon." Dark brown eyes look past ruffled bangs and there's a weary sigh that ruffles the hair across Johnny's brow. He shifts, squirming against the textured wallpaper until he flattens his back enough to rub through his tee material to scratch a spot between his shoulder blades.
An arm stops his fidgeting. It comes to rest beside his head with an elbow just above his shoulder, fingers idly twirl a lock of his hair and Johnny feels dizzy from a sudden lack of air in his lungs. "You're drunk," the tall guy says, disappointment in his eyes behind the mocking tone.
Johnny just cups his face, hands against the shadow of stubble and drags the man in for a kiss. "I love you," he breathes in between the bites and hurried pants for breath. Again and again he damns himself with those words but Johnny could care less when he's pinned flat to the wall, the weight of the other keeping him still as the kissing shows no sign of stopping. It's not enough, despite how his body aches with embarrassment -some part of him coherent enough to know something horrible has happened- and he groans when lips and teeth tease down the line of his jugular.
The keycard is found and Johnny is dumped onto the bed. Shoes are wrestled with until the designer boots are tossed across the room to thud unceremoniously against the far wall. Part of him wants to complain about expensive footwear needing more respect and the rest can't pull his eyes away from the amusing little black scuff marks they made.
A hand on his cheek draws his focus back and Johnny -though he tries valiantly- doesn't make it through the rest of the kiss before he passes out. One really skinny guy and too many cocktails, remember?
He wakes up the next morning fully dressed with what feels like razor rash on his cheek . Johnny loathes the pain dancing around in his head, kicking parts of his brain periodically, and stays in bed until his cell chirps at him. He reaches blindly for it from under the blankets and grumbles at the 'Evan' blinking up at him.
It's a text -thank God- that reads: ''Remind me to tell Galina to get a breathalyzer for you. Also, you're lucky that I found you before anyone else did at that party, Romeo.'
Johnny blinks and reads it again, thinking back to the blur of a body he clung to and professed heartfelt emotions for. His face burns, that nagging feeling of shame from earlier rocketing back in full force so strongly that Johnny wishes the ground would part and swallow him whole.
Bad enough he put the moves on Evan -freaking- Lysacek, but he remembers the words that slurred past his mouth; things he's not supposed to admit even to himself that just tumbled out like rocks onto the floor at their feet. Thankfully, Evan's delightfully slow on occasion and probably just brushed it off.
Though Johnny does grin like an idiot for a while thinking about how Evan was so eager to kiss him back.
He's very aware of how pathetic his whining about lacking a life seems when he's known internationally and has his own television show. Then again, his closest friend, the one that has never once let him down, is a vacuum cleaner and the nearest he's come to sex is a foot massager. Johnny might be fantastic and famous, but there are several special degrees of pathetic that he understands far better than most.
After a long day of interviews and shooing the camera crew away long enough to get a few minutes to himself, Johnny resigns the night away to a good drink and his dear mechanical lover.
"Oh daddy," he coos at the device while plugging it in. "Where would I be without you? That's right, I'd be left to my pretty little lonesome."
It's buzzing delightfully around his feet as he lays back on the bed and purrs. The few shots of tequila he did -a gift that's been sitting in his freezer for too long- slosh around in his stomach over the small dinner he made and Johnny settles into the pleasant buzz that tingles its way up his legs to his groin. Wearing just jean capris and underwear beneath, he's content to slide a hand over his crotch while teasing the fly buttons open one at a time.
Course the universe spites him by having his phone ring. Half-hard and with his tongue feeling wonderful leaden, Johnny presses it to his ear and answers without looking at the screen first. Not even bothering with a 'hello' he just lets out a happy little hum in greeting while keeping his eyes shut. Circles are rubbed into his feet, his heels gripped and the continual whirr of the motor almost drowns out the voice on the other line.
"Dude, what, are you in a jacuzzi or something?"
Evan. Of course it's Evan. Johnny opens his eyes and remembers the blurred outline of his face and shaggy hair above him, that last kiss before blissful black. He weighs the pros and cons of turning his massager off but is too far gone to move just then. "Mmm.. no.. a gift. Foot massager," Johnny's quite proud he can make a sound that's not just a breathy moan or plea to a higher power.
The other man laughs, something strangely sincere about it, like Evan knows a secret. "Ahh.. a night alone then, huh? Just you and your 'daddy'?" Johnny blushes, damning the internet and the speed at which things can be posted and shared, even across countries. Safely separated on opposite coasts, Johnny forgets that Evan's just as much a whore for the internet and it's sometimes frightening wonders as most people in the world are.
"What do you want?"
Another little laugh that trails off into a sigh. Johnny thinks he hears the sound of a door sliding shut and it sends shivers down his back. His fingers move of their own accord, undoing the last of his button fly and strokes along the seam on the front of his underwear. Beneath it, aching for a more intense touch, his cock gives a throb of misery at being denied. "Tell me what it feels like, Johnny," Evan's voice is deeper, quieter.
Johnny pauses and looks at the phone, his head spinning from more than just the alcohol.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Are you hard?"
Johnny bites his lip and feels goose bumps form on his arms. Evan should not know how to push his buttons so quickly and so easily. He shifts to dig his heels deeper into the blue plush while the machine keeps on steadily rubbing in all the right places. Breathless, Johnny closes his eyes and feels his fingers flex to grip his mobile tighter. "Yeah," he admits. "And a bit drunk, what's it to you? Shouldn't you be doing the ah… foxtrot or something?" He has to pause in his attempt at taking control again when a particularly strong vibration shoots right up his leg to his dick.
At least he didn't groan out loud like he wanted to.
There's the sound of movement on the line- it sounds like fabric, maybe even Evan sitting down with his back against the door he closed earlier. He can just picture it; long, lanky body sitting there in all black work out gear. "I did that, actually," Evan replies with an air of calm. "But right now, I think I'd rather talk to you while you cum."
Okay, that groan couldn't be helped and Johnny's face burns as he hears Evan's sharp inhale. Wrapping his head around the thought that Evan seemed to be getting off on Johnny getting off -while over the phone- is only further evidence that the massager came from the Devil himself.
"Evan…"
"You have no idea how much you drive me insane," the voice on the other line says. "How I see you on TV or online, people link shit to my twitter and it's just you and me or you doing something impossibly hot without even trying. God dammit, if you hadn't passed out-"
Johnny's hand is around his dick while Evan rambles. He strokes and pulls, squeezes and squirms around on the bed while fighting to breathe as calmly as he can so as not to give himself away. The whimpers don't help, but he can't stop those. His toes curl after a particularly wonderful usage of the word 'fuck' and a sharp dig against the heel of his foot.
"Say something you bastard," Evan all but growls. Johnny can hear the frustration -the closeness- that must be so obvious in his own noises too while he fists his cock. His back arches and his head is thrust back into the bed, levering his weight onto his shoulders and his feet which only intensifies the sensations. That he comes with a panting moan isn't the embarrassing thing -as Evan's rumbling sigh of pleasure is only a hurried heartbeat after his- but that as his body attempts to settle (feet still buzzing and a smear of spunk on his chest) Johnny's brain takes a veering dive into Idiot-ville.
"Damn you, Lysacek. I love you."
They're just words, just sounds that whatever's left of his mind has opted to string together to answer Evan's demands of verbal reciprocation. Just words that he's said to his fans -never one to be shy about returning the waves and waves of adoration- but with his dick still twitching in his hand and the thought of Evan having jerked off to the sound of his voice… yeah, even drunk Johnny knows that was a stupid move. The line goes quiet as Evan hangs up and the part of him that is hurt gets shoved away into a little box labeled 'do not touch' in some dark recess of Johnny's mind.
He sits up only long enough to toss his phone near his pillow, shut off the massager, and get himself cleaned up. In fresh pajamas he crawls under the blankets after turning off all the lights and lets sleep pounce like a ninja waiting in the dark.
Johnny enjoys having the upper hand. It's the diva in him, wanting to be the first --or if he must be last, then he will be the best.
So when Evan shows up for his dance practice and sees Johnny, dressed as casual as Johnny gets, wearing what can only be women's boots considering the sharpness and height of the heel, being walked through an easy waltz with his dancing partner; Johnny feels the thrill of vindication. The way Evan's jaw tenses, his eyes sharpen with that familiar flare of 'oh it's on' like they used to shoot one another prior to competitions is fantastic.
Better yet, the way his eyes widen and mouth goes beautifully slack once his eyes track all the way down to see those boots. Anna, Evan's partner, loved them and wrote down the brand name as soon as she saw them earlier. Needless to say, the two got along wonderfully and she giggles, clinging to Johnny's chest upon realizing they've been spotted.
"Just warming up for you," she teases with a wink. Evan mumbles something, going for nonchalant probably, and drops his bag near the bench along the non-mirrored wall and sits down to change into his own dancing shoes. She looks back to Johnny, rolling her eyes and he just smiles sympathetically. The two continue to move about the wooden floor, her counting and him trying not to watch their feet, until Evan walks over and clears his throat.
"May I cut in?"
Johnny preens as he takes a step back, "And here I thought you'd never ask!" Anna laughs again, bashfully covering a smile that a beautiful woman like her shouldn't hide. "He's too shy to really ask me," Johnny adds in Russian, watching Anna's eyes sparkle with another bit of laughter as Evan bristles between the two of them.
He walks away with only a glance over his shoulder at Evan, who's still fuming (especially at being spoken over in another language), and settles himself on the black stairs. Johnny watches them warm up, Evan's arms around her and her body pressed to his, as she talks him through the steps one at a time. The music plays on a quiet loop beneath the sound of her voice. While half listening to her instructions, Johnny wonders if they stuck Evan in the garishly orange room to make his tan less obvious and abrasive to the eye. If he happens to find the thought amusing, snickers to himself, and it catches Evan's attention... Johnny doesn't care.
An hour later and Anna says she needs a quick break. She excuses herself, promising to bring back some water for all of them, and winks at Johnny -telling him to stay put as she's not done with him yet, either- before her heels click their way out of the room. Johnny raises himself up, walking calmly and effortlessly in what would be challenging footwear for most other men, and only stops when he's just out of Evan's reach.
Evan closes the distance, hand snapping to his waist and shoulder and brings one side of their hips together. Johnny reminds himself to breathe, remembering the glory of the upper-hand, but almost forgets it as Evan's fingers sneak beneath his FCUK shirt to touch the skin at the small of his back.
The sense memory of that touch -a fleeting, unconscious one as a man helps a drunken friend back to his hotel room- makes Johnny shiver through the first few steps they take together. Evan's a lot better than Johnny would have expected. His height and reach let him twist and turn his way through the steps with an ease that almost makes Johnny think Evan was really made for pair skating.
They don't think about the unlocked door or the bare windows on one wall as Evan dances him toward the mirrors. Johnny hisses at the cold surface against his back and the heat of Evan pinning him there with his broad form. All he can do is dig his nails into Evan's hair, lightly scratching his scalp as they kiss like the world is ending.
"Wearing… fucking… heels," Evan grunts out in between kisses. Johnny wants to laugh, to mock Evan for getting so turned on by something so simple, but the hand that's tracing the inseam of his tight pants up his inner thigh obliterates the thoughts from Johnny's brain. With the extra height, their dicks are lined up even though separated by layers, and Johnny uses the leverage of the mirror behind him to hook a thin leg around Evan's own to keep the angle. He moans, unashamedly, against Evan's neck as they grind forward; both fighting to dominate and set the pace.
Evan only wins because he hooks his hands under Johnny's ass and lifts him off his feet. The drop in Johnny's stomach at being lifted is enough to make him compliant to the wonderfully rough pattern that Evan sets. Pressing their cocks to line up side by side, fabric only tantalizing the feelings further until Johnny's just panting into Evan's mouth while clinging to the taller man with every limb he still has sway over. Arms tight around his shoulders, backs of his heels just about digging into that annoyingly perky ass and Johnny bites at Evan's throat.
He gets a low grunt as an answer, surely he might regret that later since it's beyond unsubtle of him, but for now it's enough to get them off. Evan's hands digging into Johnny's hips hard enough to probably leave finger-shaped bruises but the pain flares in ways that only drives him further.
Besides, having the upper-hand again, he drags his nails down Evan's back and knows full well that through the thin tee fabric he'll probably be sporting reddened lines there for at least a day. Johnny bites his lower lip to quiet his climax, feeling the rush of heat that explodes beneath Evan's skin. That they came in their pants is embarrassing -shit, they do have Anna coming back soon- but Johnny's too fucking blissed out to care. He mumbles a protest against Evan's shoulder as he's set back onto his feet but makes no attempt to pull away in order to stand on his own.
Evan kisses him again, breathing hard through his nose and the hot air washes over Johnny's cheek. Their eyes are shut, it's almost damn romantic, and Johnny mentally kicks aside the 'do not open' box that's overflowing with things that have Evan's name all over them. He won't get caught up in some game and he won't let Evan be the one with the last word. Their lips part with a soft smacking sound and Johnny knows that his face is flushed, probably spotty like after a program. A second kiss, a softer one, makes something in Johnny melt and if he whispers those dreaded words only alcohol has loosened out of him so far, he ignores the slip up and Evan pays them no mind.
By the time Anna comes back, bottles of vitamin water in her arms, the two have parted and settled into a more normal rapport, snipping and bantering while pointing out one another's weaknesses as they stand before the mirror, practicing a simple solo move Anna demonstrated earlier. There's enough room between the two of them to drive a truck through and luckily their dark clothes made cleaning themselves up a snap. As long as no one goes all CSI on the bundle of paper towels in the trashcan then they were golden.
"You're sticking your ass out too far on the downbeat."
"At least I have an ass," Evan glares. "Besides, you're supposed to move a quarter turn on the third beat, not a half-rotation."
"Yeah, if you're a lazy mongoose who has no rhythm then sure, do a quarter turn!"
Anna has to break them up and put them on opposite sides of the room before they start shouting at each other.
He's laying on his hotel room bed what feels like a year later but in reality is only about seven hours. Johnny sucks his teeth, disappointed in himself since he's trained for much, much longer on the ice and yet is sore in all new terrible ways. Undoing the zipper on his boots, Johnny takes off his shoes and glares at them.
"You bitches," he whispers and then sighs, unable to not smile at the buttery smooth leather. They were a bit of a splurge, something his mother and agent did not need to know about, really, but after his day they're worth every penny and foot cramp combined.Leaning over the edge of the bed, he carefully lays them down on top of his opened suitcase.
The soft moan he lets out when his back pops in a painful but glorious way is truly proof from God that those shoes are a little slice of Heaven. Johnny chuckles, laughing against the bedding and crosses his legs at the ankle while shifting onto his stomach.
A knock at the door startles Johnny from his catnap and he's on his feet before he's fully awake. Muscles protest the sudden movement but Johnny just exhales out the last ripples of pain and walks to the door. He just about falls over laughing at the sight on the other side of the peephole. Opening the door, Johnny has a shopping list worth of things to say to the gold-medal champion on the other side, half of which are boasts about his own masculinity (hey, if anyone should be able to make comments about his gender, it damn well better be Johnny himself), about Anna wanting a 'real man' to dance with over Evan's clumsy lack of grace.
He is most decidedly not expecting a hand to wrap around his upper arm and drag him past the door before getting shoved up against it. The door closes with a quick hiss and then a bang as Evan's hand slams on the flat surface just by Johnny's head.
To say Evan looks… pissed, is an understatement. Johnny actually feels a thread of fear wind through his chest except that Evan's standing too close to be entirely threatening. The way his breath rushes in and out reminds Johnny of a stallion, panting and nostrils flaring, muscles bunching beneath the flimsy hooded sweatshirt that he's wearing. It makes his broad body look even larger.
Johnny thinks he shouldn't be as turned on as he is because there's still that flicker of fury in Evan's eyes.
"What are you playing at?" Evan asks, voice barely above a whisper. "You're here in LA, when the only reason to be in LA is because I'm here. You have nothing here, Johnny."
He's got a point, really Johnny should be more concerned about his announcement to drop out from Worlds and how Galina is going to skin him alive for not immediately training for whatever was next. At least he'd make a sexy coat for her. There's also the interviews he's done and how he's begged off from being followed around for his show just for a 'few days alone'. Johnny thinks all of these things while Evan just looms above him, waiting for some sort of profound answer that Johnny doesn't have.
So he kisses him. Just grabs Evan's face and pulls him in for a kiss because fuck him, that's the only real justification he's got left anymore. He can barely even be in the same room as Evan anymore without his brain shorting out, resulting in stupidity either by word or action. That he's there, clinging as tight as he can to Evan while the other man presses him harder to the door as he just about sucks Johnny's tongue out of his mouth is at least enough reassurance that he's not alone in that dementia.
Evan's hand flails absently, slamming the loop over the stop on the door to make sure no nosy cleaning staff interrupt them. Not that they get very far, Evan's on his back on the carpet with his arms full of Johnny barely three steps from where they stood. He groans into the kiss, pulling at Johnny's shirt until it's up and off, tossed aside forgotten.
Having actual penetrative sex is too much work at the moment and they're too high-strung after too long untouched to have much patience at all. They stick with what works; just rutting like beasts and trying to get at as much skin as possible. There'll be rug burns on Evan's back and a bite mark on Johnny's chest that will bruise dark tomorrow, but right now is about trying not to come in their pants, trying to wring those words Johnny's only said drunk or while in a moment of close-to-God intense afterglow post public groping.
If Evan has a plan, then Johnny is all for sticking to it just to keep the strangely perfect feel of those giant mongoose hands under his clothes, cupping his bare ass. Johnny works his way down Evan's neck, tonguing the dip of his collarbone before Evan's hand breaks from it's prior hold to tangle tight in his hair. The grip jerks his head up, forcing him to look into Evan's eyes and Johnny swallows the lump in his throat.
Except this time, it's Evan who looks terrified.
"What are you doing to me?" he asks, as if he's woken up in a strange world with Johnny mostly undressed on top of him. Johnny shifts, mirroring Evan's earlier gesture with his hands on either side of the other man's head. He's drunk again, drunk on that dazzled look in Evan's eyes, as if he's drowning and Johnny's the only anchor he's got to make things real. It's damn intoxicating.
He can only reply with the sole answer that head rush provides. "I love you."
Evan relaxes beneath him and Johnny rests their brows together as the hand drops from his hair to the back of his neck.
"Freak," Evan murmurs.
"Sasquatch," Johnny purrs back. He doesn't want to question the flush of heat making him tingle or the strange feeling of comfort at the loose loop of Evan's arms around him. All he can think about is that big bed that surely dozens of people have had their way on and it's in for an infamous new addition if he has his say.
Three orgasms later, Evan beneath him again -oh god, his ass is as tight as it is fine- and is practically shouting to the heavens words that took inebriation for Johnny to say. Like a mantra from his lips, as steady as the air that rushes in and out of his lungs, Evan groans, "I love you, I love you. God damn you, you stupid Swan. I love you."
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 4433
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: We've been meeting this way for a while/Always keeping our hearts in denial/But the rules of the game are as such/There are some things You never should rush/With the way that you're looking tonight/It was only a matter of time/Before I got so overwhelmed/And I just could not help myself
-Raul Malo
Notes: I fully intend to blame this story on a few factors: one being this song, which I love to pieces :D, and of course... this fic has to be dedicated to the world's most well-loved foot massager ever! (NSFW!) Also a billion thanks to beta-pixie!!
There's a very good reason why Johnny tries his damnedest not to drink, especially when he's around… well, anyone. Aside from the fact that his waist is about as big around as most people's thighs and therefore can barely take more than a splash of heavily diluted alcohol, there's the little problem of Johnny's very big mouth; even when sober, he sees little reason to silence himself.
So when he's drunk, well, all those little reasons seem far less important than before.
"I love you."
Words no one should ever drunkenly slur to anyone. Ever. Especially when he can't remember if it was a dream or an inebriated stupor that led him to whisper against an ear he has to stand on tiptoe to reach. The arms around his waist tighten for a brief moment before they relax, a stripe of heat as fingers sneak beneath his shirt to touch skin and Johnny shivers.
"I'm not allowed to have sex, you know," he continues on. The taller, firm body holding him up and walking him down an endless hall to a hotel room shakes with soft laughter. He thinks he hears a response, something about most of them being denied that activity, and Johnny grins at hearing it called by such a tame turn of phrase.
"Fucking, say it," he teases. The wall holds him up while fingers poke at the bag slung over his shoulder to look for a keycard. "Say it, say it, c'mon." Dark brown eyes look past ruffled bangs and there's a weary sigh that ruffles the hair across Johnny's brow. He shifts, squirming against the textured wallpaper until he flattens his back enough to rub through his tee material to scratch a spot between his shoulder blades.
An arm stops his fidgeting. It comes to rest beside his head with an elbow just above his shoulder, fingers idly twirl a lock of his hair and Johnny feels dizzy from a sudden lack of air in his lungs. "You're drunk," the tall guy says, disappointment in his eyes behind the mocking tone.
Johnny just cups his face, hands against the shadow of stubble and drags the man in for a kiss. "I love you," he breathes in between the bites and hurried pants for breath. Again and again he damns himself with those words but Johnny could care less when he's pinned flat to the wall, the weight of the other keeping him still as the kissing shows no sign of stopping. It's not enough, despite how his body aches with embarrassment -some part of him coherent enough to know something horrible has happened- and he groans when lips and teeth tease down the line of his jugular.
The keycard is found and Johnny is dumped onto the bed. Shoes are wrestled with until the designer boots are tossed across the room to thud unceremoniously against the far wall. Part of him wants to complain about expensive footwear needing more respect and the rest can't pull his eyes away from the amusing little black scuff marks they made.
A hand on his cheek draws his focus back and Johnny -though he tries valiantly- doesn't make it through the rest of the kiss before he passes out. One really skinny guy and too many cocktails, remember?
He wakes up the next morning fully dressed with what feels like razor rash on his cheek . Johnny loathes the pain dancing around in his head, kicking parts of his brain periodically, and stays in bed until his cell chirps at him. He reaches blindly for it from under the blankets and grumbles at the 'Evan' blinking up at him.
It's a text -thank God- that reads: ''Remind me to tell Galina to get a breathalyzer for you. Also, you're lucky that I found you before anyone else did at that party, Romeo.'
Johnny blinks and reads it again, thinking back to the blur of a body he clung to and professed heartfelt emotions for. His face burns, that nagging feeling of shame from earlier rocketing back in full force so strongly that Johnny wishes the ground would part and swallow him whole.
Bad enough he put the moves on Evan -freaking- Lysacek, but he remembers the words that slurred past his mouth; things he's not supposed to admit even to himself that just tumbled out like rocks onto the floor at their feet. Thankfully, Evan's delightfully slow on occasion and probably just brushed it off.
Though Johnny does grin like an idiot for a while thinking about how Evan was so eager to kiss him back.
He's very aware of how pathetic his whining about lacking a life seems when he's known internationally and has his own television show. Then again, his closest friend, the one that has never once let him down, is a vacuum cleaner and the nearest he's come to sex is a foot massager. Johnny might be fantastic and famous, but there are several special degrees of pathetic that he understands far better than most.
After a long day of interviews and shooing the camera crew away long enough to get a few minutes to himself, Johnny resigns the night away to a good drink and his dear mechanical lover.
"Oh daddy," he coos at the device while plugging it in. "Where would I be without you? That's right, I'd be left to my pretty little lonesome."
It's buzzing delightfully around his feet as he lays back on the bed and purrs. The few shots of tequila he did -a gift that's been sitting in his freezer for too long- slosh around in his stomach over the small dinner he made and Johnny settles into the pleasant buzz that tingles its way up his legs to his groin. Wearing just jean capris and underwear beneath, he's content to slide a hand over his crotch while teasing the fly buttons open one at a time.
Course the universe spites him by having his phone ring. Half-hard and with his tongue feeling wonderful leaden, Johnny presses it to his ear and answers without looking at the screen first. Not even bothering with a 'hello' he just lets out a happy little hum in greeting while keeping his eyes shut. Circles are rubbed into his feet, his heels gripped and the continual whirr of the motor almost drowns out the voice on the other line.
"Dude, what, are you in a jacuzzi or something?"
Evan. Of course it's Evan. Johnny opens his eyes and remembers the blurred outline of his face and shaggy hair above him, that last kiss before blissful black. He weighs the pros and cons of turning his massager off but is too far gone to move just then. "Mmm.. no.. a gift. Foot massager," Johnny's quite proud he can make a sound that's not just a breathy moan or plea to a higher power.
The other man laughs, something strangely sincere about it, like Evan knows a secret. "Ahh.. a night alone then, huh? Just you and your 'daddy'?" Johnny blushes, damning the internet and the speed at which things can be posted and shared, even across countries. Safely separated on opposite coasts, Johnny forgets that Evan's just as much a whore for the internet and it's sometimes frightening wonders as most people in the world are.
"What do you want?"
Another little laugh that trails off into a sigh. Johnny thinks he hears the sound of a door sliding shut and it sends shivers down his back. His fingers move of their own accord, undoing the last of his button fly and strokes along the seam on the front of his underwear. Beneath it, aching for a more intense touch, his cock gives a throb of misery at being denied. "Tell me what it feels like, Johnny," Evan's voice is deeper, quieter.
Johnny pauses and looks at the phone, his head spinning from more than just the alcohol.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Are you hard?"
Johnny bites his lip and feels goose bumps form on his arms. Evan should not know how to push his buttons so quickly and so easily. He shifts to dig his heels deeper into the blue plush while the machine keeps on steadily rubbing in all the right places. Breathless, Johnny closes his eyes and feels his fingers flex to grip his mobile tighter. "Yeah," he admits. "And a bit drunk, what's it to you? Shouldn't you be doing the ah… foxtrot or something?" He has to pause in his attempt at taking control again when a particularly strong vibration shoots right up his leg to his dick.
At least he didn't groan out loud like he wanted to.
There's the sound of movement on the line- it sounds like fabric, maybe even Evan sitting down with his back against the door he closed earlier. He can just picture it; long, lanky body sitting there in all black work out gear. "I did that, actually," Evan replies with an air of calm. "But right now, I think I'd rather talk to you while you cum."
Okay, that groan couldn't be helped and Johnny's face burns as he hears Evan's sharp inhale. Wrapping his head around the thought that Evan seemed to be getting off on Johnny getting off -while over the phone- is only further evidence that the massager came from the Devil himself.
"Evan…"
"You have no idea how much you drive me insane," the voice on the other line says. "How I see you on TV or online, people link shit to my twitter and it's just you and me or you doing something impossibly hot without even trying. God dammit, if you hadn't passed out-"
Johnny's hand is around his dick while Evan rambles. He strokes and pulls, squeezes and squirms around on the bed while fighting to breathe as calmly as he can so as not to give himself away. The whimpers don't help, but he can't stop those. His toes curl after a particularly wonderful usage of the word 'fuck' and a sharp dig against the heel of his foot.
"Say something you bastard," Evan all but growls. Johnny can hear the frustration -the closeness- that must be so obvious in his own noises too while he fists his cock. His back arches and his head is thrust back into the bed, levering his weight onto his shoulders and his feet which only intensifies the sensations. That he comes with a panting moan isn't the embarrassing thing -as Evan's rumbling sigh of pleasure is only a hurried heartbeat after his- but that as his body attempts to settle (feet still buzzing and a smear of spunk on his chest) Johnny's brain takes a veering dive into Idiot-ville.
"Damn you, Lysacek. I love you."
They're just words, just sounds that whatever's left of his mind has opted to string together to answer Evan's demands of verbal reciprocation. Just words that he's said to his fans -never one to be shy about returning the waves and waves of adoration- but with his dick still twitching in his hand and the thought of Evan having jerked off to the sound of his voice… yeah, even drunk Johnny knows that was a stupid move. The line goes quiet as Evan hangs up and the part of him that is hurt gets shoved away into a little box labeled 'do not touch' in some dark recess of Johnny's mind.
He sits up only long enough to toss his phone near his pillow, shut off the massager, and get himself cleaned up. In fresh pajamas he crawls under the blankets after turning off all the lights and lets sleep pounce like a ninja waiting in the dark.
Johnny enjoys having the upper hand. It's the diva in him, wanting to be the first --or if he must be last, then he will be the best.
So when Evan shows up for his dance practice and sees Johnny, dressed as casual as Johnny gets, wearing what can only be women's boots considering the sharpness and height of the heel, being walked through an easy waltz with his dancing partner; Johnny feels the thrill of vindication. The way Evan's jaw tenses, his eyes sharpen with that familiar flare of 'oh it's on' like they used to shoot one another prior to competitions is fantastic.
Better yet, the way his eyes widen and mouth goes beautifully slack once his eyes track all the way down to see those boots. Anna, Evan's partner, loved them and wrote down the brand name as soon as she saw them earlier. Needless to say, the two got along wonderfully and she giggles, clinging to Johnny's chest upon realizing they've been spotted.
"Just warming up for you," she teases with a wink. Evan mumbles something, going for nonchalant probably, and drops his bag near the bench along the non-mirrored wall and sits down to change into his own dancing shoes. She looks back to Johnny, rolling her eyes and he just smiles sympathetically. The two continue to move about the wooden floor, her counting and him trying not to watch their feet, until Evan walks over and clears his throat.
"May I cut in?"
Johnny preens as he takes a step back, "And here I thought you'd never ask!" Anna laughs again, bashfully covering a smile that a beautiful woman like her shouldn't hide. "He's too shy to really ask me," Johnny adds in Russian, watching Anna's eyes sparkle with another bit of laughter as Evan bristles between the two of them.
He walks away with only a glance over his shoulder at Evan, who's still fuming (especially at being spoken over in another language), and settles himself on the black stairs. Johnny watches them warm up, Evan's arms around her and her body pressed to his, as she talks him through the steps one at a time. The music plays on a quiet loop beneath the sound of her voice. While half listening to her instructions, Johnny wonders if they stuck Evan in the garishly orange room to make his tan less obvious and abrasive to the eye. If he happens to find the thought amusing, snickers to himself, and it catches Evan's attention... Johnny doesn't care.
An hour later and Anna says she needs a quick break. She excuses herself, promising to bring back some water for all of them, and winks at Johnny -telling him to stay put as she's not done with him yet, either- before her heels click their way out of the room. Johnny raises himself up, walking calmly and effortlessly in what would be challenging footwear for most other men, and only stops when he's just out of Evan's reach.
Evan closes the distance, hand snapping to his waist and shoulder and brings one side of their hips together. Johnny reminds himself to breathe, remembering the glory of the upper-hand, but almost forgets it as Evan's fingers sneak beneath his FCUK shirt to touch the skin at the small of his back.
The sense memory of that touch -a fleeting, unconscious one as a man helps a drunken friend back to his hotel room- makes Johnny shiver through the first few steps they take together. Evan's a lot better than Johnny would have expected. His height and reach let him twist and turn his way through the steps with an ease that almost makes Johnny think Evan was really made for pair skating.
They don't think about the unlocked door or the bare windows on one wall as Evan dances him toward the mirrors. Johnny hisses at the cold surface against his back and the heat of Evan pinning him there with his broad form. All he can do is dig his nails into Evan's hair, lightly scratching his scalp as they kiss like the world is ending.
"Wearing… fucking… heels," Evan grunts out in between kisses. Johnny wants to laugh, to mock Evan for getting so turned on by something so simple, but the hand that's tracing the inseam of his tight pants up his inner thigh obliterates the thoughts from Johnny's brain. With the extra height, their dicks are lined up even though separated by layers, and Johnny uses the leverage of the mirror behind him to hook a thin leg around Evan's own to keep the angle. He moans, unashamedly, against Evan's neck as they grind forward; both fighting to dominate and set the pace.
Evan only wins because he hooks his hands under Johnny's ass and lifts him off his feet. The drop in Johnny's stomach at being lifted is enough to make him compliant to the wonderfully rough pattern that Evan sets. Pressing their cocks to line up side by side, fabric only tantalizing the feelings further until Johnny's just panting into Evan's mouth while clinging to the taller man with every limb he still has sway over. Arms tight around his shoulders, backs of his heels just about digging into that annoyingly perky ass and Johnny bites at Evan's throat.
He gets a low grunt as an answer, surely he might regret that later since it's beyond unsubtle of him, but for now it's enough to get them off. Evan's hands digging into Johnny's hips hard enough to probably leave finger-shaped bruises but the pain flares in ways that only drives him further.
Besides, having the upper-hand again, he drags his nails down Evan's back and knows full well that through the thin tee fabric he'll probably be sporting reddened lines there for at least a day. Johnny bites his lower lip to quiet his climax, feeling the rush of heat that explodes beneath Evan's skin. That they came in their pants is embarrassing -shit, they do have Anna coming back soon- but Johnny's too fucking blissed out to care. He mumbles a protest against Evan's shoulder as he's set back onto his feet but makes no attempt to pull away in order to stand on his own.
Evan kisses him again, breathing hard through his nose and the hot air washes over Johnny's cheek. Their eyes are shut, it's almost damn romantic, and Johnny mentally kicks aside the 'do not open' box that's overflowing with things that have Evan's name all over them. He won't get caught up in some game and he won't let Evan be the one with the last word. Their lips part with a soft smacking sound and Johnny knows that his face is flushed, probably spotty like after a program. A second kiss, a softer one, makes something in Johnny melt and if he whispers those dreaded words only alcohol has loosened out of him so far, he ignores the slip up and Evan pays them no mind.
By the time Anna comes back, bottles of vitamin water in her arms, the two have parted and settled into a more normal rapport, snipping and bantering while pointing out one another's weaknesses as they stand before the mirror, practicing a simple solo move Anna demonstrated earlier. There's enough room between the two of them to drive a truck through and luckily their dark clothes made cleaning themselves up a snap. As long as no one goes all CSI on the bundle of paper towels in the trashcan then they were golden.
"You're sticking your ass out too far on the downbeat."
"At least I have an ass," Evan glares. "Besides, you're supposed to move a quarter turn on the third beat, not a half-rotation."
"Yeah, if you're a lazy mongoose who has no rhythm then sure, do a quarter turn!"
Anna has to break them up and put them on opposite sides of the room before they start shouting at each other.
He's laying on his hotel room bed what feels like a year later but in reality is only about seven hours. Johnny sucks his teeth, disappointed in himself since he's trained for much, much longer on the ice and yet is sore in all new terrible ways. Undoing the zipper on his boots, Johnny takes off his shoes and glares at them.
"You bitches," he whispers and then sighs, unable to not smile at the buttery smooth leather. They were a bit of a splurge, something his mother and agent did not need to know about, really, but after his day they're worth every penny and foot cramp combined.Leaning over the edge of the bed, he carefully lays them down on top of his opened suitcase.
The soft moan he lets out when his back pops in a painful but glorious way is truly proof from God that those shoes are a little slice of Heaven. Johnny chuckles, laughing against the bedding and crosses his legs at the ankle while shifting onto his stomach.
A knock at the door startles Johnny from his catnap and he's on his feet before he's fully awake. Muscles protest the sudden movement but Johnny just exhales out the last ripples of pain and walks to the door. He just about falls over laughing at the sight on the other side of the peephole. Opening the door, Johnny has a shopping list worth of things to say to the gold-medal champion on the other side, half of which are boasts about his own masculinity (hey, if anyone should be able to make comments about his gender, it damn well better be Johnny himself), about Anna wanting a 'real man' to dance with over Evan's clumsy lack of grace.
He is most decidedly not expecting a hand to wrap around his upper arm and drag him past the door before getting shoved up against it. The door closes with a quick hiss and then a bang as Evan's hand slams on the flat surface just by Johnny's head.
To say Evan looks… pissed, is an understatement. Johnny actually feels a thread of fear wind through his chest except that Evan's standing too close to be entirely threatening. The way his breath rushes in and out reminds Johnny of a stallion, panting and nostrils flaring, muscles bunching beneath the flimsy hooded sweatshirt that he's wearing. It makes his broad body look even larger.
Johnny thinks he shouldn't be as turned on as he is because there's still that flicker of fury in Evan's eyes.
"What are you playing at?" Evan asks, voice barely above a whisper. "You're here in LA, when the only reason to be in LA is because I'm here. You have nothing here, Johnny."
He's got a point, really Johnny should be more concerned about his announcement to drop out from Worlds and how Galina is going to skin him alive for not immediately training for whatever was next. At least he'd make a sexy coat for her. There's also the interviews he's done and how he's begged off from being followed around for his show just for a 'few days alone'. Johnny thinks all of these things while Evan just looms above him, waiting for some sort of profound answer that Johnny doesn't have.
So he kisses him. Just grabs Evan's face and pulls him in for a kiss because fuck him, that's the only real justification he's got left anymore. He can barely even be in the same room as Evan anymore without his brain shorting out, resulting in stupidity either by word or action. That he's there, clinging as tight as he can to Evan while the other man presses him harder to the door as he just about sucks Johnny's tongue out of his mouth is at least enough reassurance that he's not alone in that dementia.
Evan's hand flails absently, slamming the loop over the stop on the door to make sure no nosy cleaning staff interrupt them. Not that they get very far, Evan's on his back on the carpet with his arms full of Johnny barely three steps from where they stood. He groans into the kiss, pulling at Johnny's shirt until it's up and off, tossed aside forgotten.
Having actual penetrative sex is too much work at the moment and they're too high-strung after too long untouched to have much patience at all. They stick with what works; just rutting like beasts and trying to get at as much skin as possible. There'll be rug burns on Evan's back and a bite mark on Johnny's chest that will bruise dark tomorrow, but right now is about trying not to come in their pants, trying to wring those words Johnny's only said drunk or while in a moment of close-to-God intense afterglow post public groping.
If Evan has a plan, then Johnny is all for sticking to it just to keep the strangely perfect feel of those giant mongoose hands under his clothes, cupping his bare ass. Johnny works his way down Evan's neck, tonguing the dip of his collarbone before Evan's hand breaks from it's prior hold to tangle tight in his hair. The grip jerks his head up, forcing him to look into Evan's eyes and Johnny swallows the lump in his throat.
Except this time, it's Evan who looks terrified.
"What are you doing to me?" he asks, as if he's woken up in a strange world with Johnny mostly undressed on top of him. Johnny shifts, mirroring Evan's earlier gesture with his hands on either side of the other man's head. He's drunk again, drunk on that dazzled look in Evan's eyes, as if he's drowning and Johnny's the only anchor he's got to make things real. It's damn intoxicating.
He can only reply with the sole answer that head rush provides. "I love you."
Evan relaxes beneath him and Johnny rests their brows together as the hand drops from his hair to the back of his neck.
"Freak," Evan murmurs.
"Sasquatch," Johnny purrs back. He doesn't want to question the flush of heat making him tingle or the strange feeling of comfort at the loose loop of Evan's arms around him. All he can think about is that big bed that surely dozens of people have had their way on and it's in for an infamous new addition if he has his say.
Three orgasms later, Evan beneath him again -oh god, his ass is as tight as it is fine- and is practically shouting to the heavens words that took inebriation for Johnny to say. Like a mantra from his lips, as steady as the air that rushes in and out of his lungs, Evan groans, "I love you, I love you. God damn you, you stupid Swan. I love you."