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[wintergameskink]

2010 WINTER OLYMPIC GAMES KINK MEME

Welcome to all winter athletes! This Winter Games is screaming for fic. Lots and lots of fic. So let's give them what they want! The set up is easy! Just (anonymously) post your favorite pairing, threesome, groupsome, etc., and a kink. All prompts are welcome, not just the kinky ones. If someone is interested,

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Fill: Skating on Water (5/?) WIP

[anonymous]

With the benefit of hindsight, he knew it was because she hadn’t earned his body, hadn’t understood what it meant to him and what it cost. Maybe it was complete self-absorption and arrogance to get turned off in the middle of sex because, while your partner appreciated the look and feel of your body, she didn’t fucking appreciate your body. As it turned out, simply having a figure he was aroused by was never enough to hinder the way skin-on-skin made his brain send a killjoy shock of realization to his dick.

His second casual sex encounter was even more random, and this time with a man. Same embarrassing outcome. At least he’d learned that the cause wasn’t limited to a one time fluke. After spending a few months naval gazing while doing his hour long morning runs, followed by an hour biking, he pin-pointed the problem. After all, he’d had successful sexual encounters before all this, when he was actually dating the person he was fucking.

Dating. Another heaping mess for different reasons which broke down into two categories: before he buckled down into short track and after.

Before short track, most of his failures were like any idiot teen’s failures. He had his first girlfriend when he was thirteen and horny, but it was a relationship of children playing at being adults. There was no sex. Barely any kissing. It ended when one of her friends called him chunky and, instead of defending him, she’d laughed.

Even at thirteen Apolo Anton Ohno was not to be mocked.

The first time he’d had sex-real fucking, not just groping or an inexperienced blowjob-it was also with a girl. He’d been sixteen and fucking stupid, as sixteen-year-olds tend to be. He’d also been training and competing in short track at what, at the time, he had thought of as an impossible pace. Instead of talking through the stress of balancing a personal life with athletic ambition with his father, he slacked off practice, made friends at the Pizza Hut, and stuffed his face with food. When he received an invite to train in New York for two weeks, his father was fed up with his stupidity and dropped him off at the Seattle airport with a ticket for an intense training camp where he’d spend day and night working his ass off. That sounded like hell to Apolo. Instead of getting on the plane, he phoned a friend and, for over two weeks, jumped from one house to another.

One happened to be his girlfriend’s. And her parents were away.

After Yuki found out Apolo had ditched training and managed to track his son down, he was furious. About the whole New York training hooky thing, yes, but the way Yuki looked at him made Apolo think he suspected something of the girl, too. He was disappointed his son had gone about the dating thing all half-cocked and deceptive.

But Yuki was mostly furious. It was the fury that landed Apolo in a cabin somewhere in Middle of Nowhere, Canada, with express orders from his father not only to think about what he’d done, but to come to a decision. It was either short track all the way or something else productive all the way. Yuki was done with Apolo’s crap.

In the cold, in the quiet, in the perfect isolation, Apolo took a calculating assessment of who he was, who he wanted to be, and, simply, what he wanted.

Every muscle, every fiber in him burned to skate, to speed, to fight through a pack of bodies and to have that one perfect race.

From then on, Apolo poured everything into short track.

Getting off couldn’t compete. Nothing could.

That left dating post-short track, and what a fucking messy streak of failure that turned out to be.

Same scenario, different players. Every time. Apolo would insist on keeping the relationship private and confidential, whether his partner was male or female. He was up front about it, explaining that short track, training, and academics would come before sex and the relationship. In that order: short track, training, academics, sex, relationship. They’d insist it was fine. They insisted they understood, and sometimes Apolo was gullible enough to believe them, enough to let them touch him and like it.

It was never fine. Not ever.