Cohabitation
Title: Cohabitation
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, sexual roughhousing?
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Evan and Johnny live together, 2173 words.
Author's Notes: After the Tanith/Johnny/Evan housing fiasco, it needed to happen.
Johnny pushes his sunglasses up in his hair and sets his bags down.
Evan’s left his shoes in the middle of the hallway. Again. For someone so OCD about his toothpaste brand and his t-shirts being on the left of his dress shirts and the ice cubes trays always being full even if just one cube’s missing and the Glade plug-in not smelling like cinnamon and his CD collection being alphabetized by genre and then by year and then by artist-seriously, how does this even happen? Does he just stop halfway to the bedroom, kick his shoes off, and keep walking?
“Evan!” Johnny yells. No answer. Which means he’s probably out back swimming until he gives himself skin cancer and then he’ll come in dripping and pass out on the couch from sun exhaustion and make the cushions smell like chlorine again. Awesome.
Johnny delicately steps over the shoes and tosses his shit on the bed.
“Where’s my Coke?” Evan’s voice echoes weird and hollow, half of his stupid scarecrow body contorted into the refrigerator. He’s showered and mostly dry, but he’s wearing the Phish shirt Johnny fucking loathes.
Johnny’s cutting up baby yellow tomatoes for a salad and he doesn’t give a shit about Evan’s missing carbonated aspartame. “You know you don’t have to drink that crap just because they pay you to be on the can.”
“You know you don’t have to watch Housewives just because you’re a queen.”
Evan cracks open the can he found, and Johnny glares and takes his salad into the living room.
“Do you have to say ‘crap’?” Evan asks, hours later.
Johnny looks up from his magazine.“What’s wrong with ‘crap’?”
“It makes me feel like I’m in middle school.” Evan drapes an arm over his face, sprawled out in his jeans over the whole couch (it’s a little too small for him). Napping is, as previously mentioned, an off-season hobby for Evan. And then he’s up all night and Johnny can’t go to bed at 11 for yoga at 6, and seriously, in what universe did Johnny think this could possibly work out. “Just drop an f-bomb every once and a while. I won’t tell anybody.”
“Classy people don’t ‘drop f-bombs’, Evan.” Honestly, how is he the one with the less-than-wholesome reputation. Sometimes he kind of wishes Evan’s name was longer, so he could use the nickname version most of the time and then lengthen it for effect when he needs to. Tone will have to suffice.
“I’m going to Starbucks.” He grabs his car keys. “Don’t burn the house down while I'm gone,” he finishes sarcastically. It would be cliché, except for how Evan’d actually managed to leave a Tupperware container of ham on a hot burner once. There’s still acrid burning pig smell clinging in the curtains.
Evan flips his hand at him like whatever whatever, and Johnny throws the magazine at him before he leaves.
Johnny’s slept in a big t-shirt since he was a kid. And he’s not changing that up just because he’s sharing a bed with Evan fucking Lysacek. He’s been trying to wear boxers for the past two weeks and it’s hot and miserable and stifling, and besides, maybe he’ll be asleep before Evan gets home from wherever the fuck he went-something about needing orange juice for breakfast-and then Evan will be forced to wait to mock him in the morning.
Of course, like Johnny could be so lucky. He hears the front door open and shut, a long pause, and then the bathroom light clicking on. He tries to go to sleep as fast as fucking possible-Evan can tell when he’s faking.
But he’s still incredibly, painfully wide awake when the mattress sinks down behind him. The air smells like Evan’s cologne, and also a little citrusy. He probably tried to chug half a gallon of Minute Maid in the kitchen before he came in-seriously, Johnny’s caught him doing retarded shit like that before. It’s like he dares himself to do the stupidest things just to see if he can, even if no-one else is there to witness the triumph.
Either way, Johnny’s resolved to ignore him. He’s pissed about the newspaper being left on the stoop and he's pissed about the splotch on the counter where someone dropped a meatball and clearly just rolled it back into the bowl, and yeah, he’s pissed about the Desperate Housewives comment. Maybe the fucking Mythbusters can show him their Emmys. Was Jurassic Fight Club recognized by the Screen Actor’s Guild for Outstanding Performance by an Ensemble Cast in a Comedy Series?
The room is quiet. All Johnny can hear is the click of the lamp pull on the ceiling fan and he seriously needs to get that fixed, it’s going to drive him absolutely crazy-and then he hears Evan sigh, and it sounds more like amusement than frustration or defeat or resentment. Johnny feels him roll over and shifts forward in annoyance when Evan presses up against him. There isn’t anything particularly sexual about it, he’s just lying behind him, but Johnny hates cuddling. And he’s not in the mood. And he knows the height difference is only like, 3 inches, but when Evan spoons him like this, he feels like a fucking midget.
And Evan’s breath is too hot and humid and close in the back of his neck. At first it’s no big deal, but it quickly becomes uncomfortable and then it becomes annoying, and first Johnny shoulders him, then he elbows him harder and harder and harder until eventually Evan gives in, but it's probably more due to a lack of oxygen than caring about what Johnny wants. He seems to settle on hooking his chin over Johnny’s shoulder, body even closer and hotter than before, and Johnny’s mouth turns down with annoyance. There’s no way Evan could see it, but he smiles like he knows anyways.
For a while, Johnny thinks Evan’s going to just let him go to sleep. He’s actually already half-dreaming when Evan runs his hand down the front of his shirt, rubs his ribs and his stomach and between his hips. Johnny ignores how good it feels and how big Evan’s hand is (Evan’s hands are an inexplicable, horrifically powerful turn-on for him), and Evan responds by pausing at his navel and pulling at it with his middle finger until Johnny squirms. Then Johnny feels him looking down along his body, at his shirt and his bare thighs and braces for the jeering, the lilting, prodding tone he’s grown to loathe over the years.
What comes is unexpected.
“This is hot,” Evan mutters in his hair, tugging at the hem of his shirt. And then he cups the back of Johnny’s knee, slides his palm up the bare curve of his ass. It doesn’t sound like he’s joking. It sounds like a simple acknowledgment, maybe a bit of vague appreciation, and for some reason, the disinterest turns Johnny on.
But he doesn’t answer, because he’s mad.
Evan frames his hip in his hand and pushes his shirt up, just enough to bare a bit of skin, and Johnny's arms break out in goosebumps when Evan’s hand slides up underneath. He bites his lip when Evan feels out a nipple, pinches it and tugs.
He can tell Evan’s studying his reaction with the same kind of clinical, curious attitude he usually takes to sex. The first time Evan ate him out, he was so fucking careful and thorough and trial-and-error-and-correct and precise, learning right and wrong moves like a machine, that eventually he had Johnny smacking his shoulders with his hands and telling him to stopstopstop because he couldn’t take coming again. And then Evan was smug over his fucking Wheaties in the morning and Johnny was pissed off over his grapefruit.
Evan snaps the elastic of Johnny’s briefs to bring him back and when Johnny jolts, he immediately regrets it. But it’s too late-Evan’s grinning as he rubs his thumb over the sting, and then he slips his finger under the waistband where it’s still hurting-Johnny turns his face into the mattress when Evan takes him firm in his hand, figures out he’s already half-hard just from Evan roughhousing him a bit. But Evan doesn’t say anything, just shifts up against him and adjusts his grip. Johnny’s mouth falls open when he jacks him a few times, slow and tight.
“Yeah,” Evan says, smearing precome with his thumb. Johnny’s hips jerk forward, stuttered and awkward. He can feel a blush burning hot across his cheeks and the back of his shoulders and he tries to wriggle the rest of the way out of his underwear because he’s uncomfortable and he feels exposed and trapped and helpless, but Evan wrestles him down and pins him to the mattress. The briefs are stuck halfway down Johnny’s thighs, and Johnny can hardly breathe.
“Stop, it’s hot,” Evan mumbles, fondling him, and Johnny can feel him looking down his body again, feel Evan’s erection through the thin fabric of his pants. He struggles again, and Evan pins him tighter, easy, like he’d only been using half his strength to begin with.
Johnny’s face is half-pressed into the mattress, and he’s hot, hurting, leaking hard and he has absolutely no leverage to make Evan move his hand. It’s a long minute, and then another, before Johnny fights him again, thrashing and jabbing his elbow as best he can into Evan’s ribs. He’s not going to beg. Fuck Evan, Johnny is not going to beg.
He suddenly notices his hips are the only part of his body he can move.
“Come on,” Evan says-Johnny realizes he wants him to fuck his fist. He struggles again and hits his palm on the bed. Evan laughs. “C’mon,” he repeats, lower, and he has to feel Johnny’s dick twitch in his hand.
Johnny is breathing hard, trying to think of an out. Evan noses his hair, presses his lips at the base of his neck and Johnny can’t think straight and then Evan slides his mouth up along his pulse, bites the back of his neck in some kind of primitive possession hold and okay, okay, Johnny thrusts. Evan rewards him by humming and twisting his fist, pressing up closer so Johnny can rock his ass against his dick.
Johnny knows he has to look like a total slut, spine curved and ass in the air, pushing back against Evan and grabbing the sheets, but at this point he’s so fucking close and aching that-Evan bites his shoulder and bears down on him and Johnny’s hips start to lose rhythm, and right when he feels like he’s not going to make it, Evan takes over and jacks him off so fast and hard that before Johnny can gasp, he’s coming.
“Fuck,” he moans, shaky and breathless, and he feels Evan smile against his back, where his sleeve slid off his shoulder. He should probably worry about how happy it makes Evan to beat him at something, anything, except for how Johnny knows the exact feeling and isn’t willing to give it up any time soon, ever.
His back feels cold when Evan pulls away-presumably for tissues-when he comes back, Johnny rolls over to face him.
He tries to still look pissed, but Evan’s so incredibly different than he was five hours ago, different than he was five minutes ago, pleased with himself in this really childish, ‘Wow what I did totally got you off’ kind of way-it makes it hard for Johnny to stay mad at him at all.
Evan cleans him up all careful and tucks him back in his briefs, which Johnny would fight off if he didn’t feel so good. Evan snaps the elastic one more time, but there’s no bite to it, just affection, and then he pulls Johnny up close, until they’re almost touching. Johnny would be more pissed about the whole thing generally, but the orgasm has him feeling warm and loose and sleepy all over, and now Evan’s idly rubbing the right side of his lower back, like he's somehow gleaned that it’d been bothering Johnny all day.
Johnny reaches down between them to jerk him off, but Evan swats his hand away, rolling on his back and stretching his legs. He yawns. “Blow me tomorrow morning. It’s late.”
Johnny looks at the clock. It’s 11:22. There’s absolutely no way Evan’s as tired as he’s acting. Johnny watches him for a long minute in the dark, suspicious, but Evan doesn’t roll off the bed to go watch TV or do laundry or knock over Johnny’s DVDs or whatever the hell he does out there at three in the morning. Eventually, Johnny huffs, lays down, and fits himself against Evan’s side. He holds Evan’s shirt in his fist. After a few moments, he presses his nose in his neck.
He feels Evan touch his hair before he goes to sleep.
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, sexual roughhousing?
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Evan and Johnny live together, 2173 words.
Author's Notes: After the Tanith/Johnny/Evan housing fiasco, it needed to happen.
Johnny pushes his sunglasses up in his hair and sets his bags down.
Evan’s left his shoes in the middle of the hallway. Again. For someone so OCD about his toothpaste brand and his t-shirts being on the left of his dress shirts and the ice cubes trays always being full even if just one cube’s missing and the Glade plug-in not smelling like cinnamon and his CD collection being alphabetized by genre and then by year and then by artist-seriously, how does this even happen? Does he just stop halfway to the bedroom, kick his shoes off, and keep walking?
“Evan!” Johnny yells. No answer. Which means he’s probably out back swimming until he gives himself skin cancer and then he’ll come in dripping and pass out on the couch from sun exhaustion and make the cushions smell like chlorine again. Awesome.
Johnny delicately steps over the shoes and tosses his shit on the bed.
“Where’s my Coke?” Evan’s voice echoes weird and hollow, half of his stupid scarecrow body contorted into the refrigerator. He’s showered and mostly dry, but he’s wearing the Phish shirt Johnny fucking loathes.
Johnny’s cutting up baby yellow tomatoes for a salad and he doesn’t give a shit about Evan’s missing carbonated aspartame. “You know you don’t have to drink that crap just because they pay you to be on the can.”
“You know you don’t have to watch Housewives just because you’re a queen.”
Evan cracks open the can he found, and Johnny glares and takes his salad into the living room.
“Do you have to say ‘crap’?” Evan asks, hours later.
Johnny looks up from his magazine.“What’s wrong with ‘crap’?”
“It makes me feel like I’m in middle school.” Evan drapes an arm over his face, sprawled out in his jeans over the whole couch (it’s a little too small for him). Napping is, as previously mentioned, an off-season hobby for Evan. And then he’s up all night and Johnny can’t go to bed at 11 for yoga at 6, and seriously, in what universe did Johnny think this could possibly work out. “Just drop an f-bomb every once and a while. I won’t tell anybody.”
“Classy people don’t ‘drop f-bombs’, Evan.” Honestly, how is he the one with the less-than-wholesome reputation. Sometimes he kind of wishes Evan’s name was longer, so he could use the nickname version most of the time and then lengthen it for effect when he needs to. Tone will have to suffice.
“I’m going to Starbucks.” He grabs his car keys. “Don’t burn the house down while I'm gone,” he finishes sarcastically. It would be cliché, except for how Evan’d actually managed to leave a Tupperware container of ham on a hot burner once. There’s still acrid burning pig smell clinging in the curtains.
Evan flips his hand at him like whatever whatever, and Johnny throws the magazine at him before he leaves.
Johnny’s slept in a big t-shirt since he was a kid. And he’s not changing that up just because he’s sharing a bed with Evan fucking Lysacek. He’s been trying to wear boxers for the past two weeks and it’s hot and miserable and stifling, and besides, maybe he’ll be asleep before Evan gets home from wherever the fuck he went-something about needing orange juice for breakfast-and then Evan will be forced to wait to mock him in the morning.
Of course, like Johnny could be so lucky. He hears the front door open and shut, a long pause, and then the bathroom light clicking on. He tries to go to sleep as fast as fucking possible-Evan can tell when he’s faking.
But he’s still incredibly, painfully wide awake when the mattress sinks down behind him. The air smells like Evan’s cologne, and also a little citrusy. He probably tried to chug half a gallon of Minute Maid in the kitchen before he came in-seriously, Johnny’s caught him doing retarded shit like that before. It’s like he dares himself to do the stupidest things just to see if he can, even if no-one else is there to witness the triumph.
Either way, Johnny’s resolved to ignore him. He’s pissed about the newspaper being left on the stoop and he's pissed about the splotch on the counter where someone dropped a meatball and clearly just rolled it back into the bowl, and yeah, he’s pissed about the Desperate Housewives comment. Maybe the fucking Mythbusters can show him their Emmys. Was Jurassic Fight Club recognized by the Screen Actor’s Guild for Outstanding Performance by an Ensemble Cast in a Comedy Series?
The room is quiet. All Johnny can hear is the click of the lamp pull on the ceiling fan and he seriously needs to get that fixed, it’s going to drive him absolutely crazy-and then he hears Evan sigh, and it sounds more like amusement than frustration or defeat or resentment. Johnny feels him roll over and shifts forward in annoyance when Evan presses up against him. There isn’t anything particularly sexual about it, he’s just lying behind him, but Johnny hates cuddling. And he’s not in the mood. And he knows the height difference is only like, 3 inches, but when Evan spoons him like this, he feels like a fucking midget.
And Evan’s breath is too hot and humid and close in the back of his neck. At first it’s no big deal, but it quickly becomes uncomfortable and then it becomes annoying, and first Johnny shoulders him, then he elbows him harder and harder and harder until eventually Evan gives in, but it's probably more due to a lack of oxygen than caring about what Johnny wants. He seems to settle on hooking his chin over Johnny’s shoulder, body even closer and hotter than before, and Johnny’s mouth turns down with annoyance. There’s no way Evan could see it, but he smiles like he knows anyways.
For a while, Johnny thinks Evan’s going to just let him go to sleep. He’s actually already half-dreaming when Evan runs his hand down the front of his shirt, rubs his ribs and his stomach and between his hips. Johnny ignores how good it feels and how big Evan’s hand is (Evan’s hands are an inexplicable, horrifically powerful turn-on for him), and Evan responds by pausing at his navel and pulling at it with his middle finger until Johnny squirms. Then Johnny feels him looking down along his body, at his shirt and his bare thighs and braces for the jeering, the lilting, prodding tone he’s grown to loathe over the years.
What comes is unexpected.
“This is hot,” Evan mutters in his hair, tugging at the hem of his shirt. And then he cups the back of Johnny’s knee, slides his palm up the bare curve of his ass. It doesn’t sound like he’s joking. It sounds like a simple acknowledgment, maybe a bit of vague appreciation, and for some reason, the disinterest turns Johnny on.
But he doesn’t answer, because he’s mad.
Evan frames his hip in his hand and pushes his shirt up, just enough to bare a bit of skin, and Johnny's arms break out in goosebumps when Evan’s hand slides up underneath. He bites his lip when Evan feels out a nipple, pinches it and tugs.
He can tell Evan’s studying his reaction with the same kind of clinical, curious attitude he usually takes to sex. The first time Evan ate him out, he was so fucking careful and thorough and trial-and-error-and-correct and precise, learning right and wrong moves like a machine, that eventually he had Johnny smacking his shoulders with his hands and telling him to stopstopstop because he couldn’t take coming again. And then Evan was smug over his fucking Wheaties in the morning and Johnny was pissed off over his grapefruit.
Evan snaps the elastic of Johnny’s briefs to bring him back and when Johnny jolts, he immediately regrets it. But it’s too late-Evan’s grinning as he rubs his thumb over the sting, and then he slips his finger under the waistband where it’s still hurting-Johnny turns his face into the mattress when Evan takes him firm in his hand, figures out he’s already half-hard just from Evan roughhousing him a bit. But Evan doesn’t say anything, just shifts up against him and adjusts his grip. Johnny’s mouth falls open when he jacks him a few times, slow and tight.
“Yeah,” Evan says, smearing precome with his thumb. Johnny’s hips jerk forward, stuttered and awkward. He can feel a blush burning hot across his cheeks and the back of his shoulders and he tries to wriggle the rest of the way out of his underwear because he’s uncomfortable and he feels exposed and trapped and helpless, but Evan wrestles him down and pins him to the mattress. The briefs are stuck halfway down Johnny’s thighs, and Johnny can hardly breathe.
“Stop, it’s hot,” Evan mumbles, fondling him, and Johnny can feel him looking down his body again, feel Evan’s erection through the thin fabric of his pants. He struggles again, and Evan pins him tighter, easy, like he’d only been using half his strength to begin with.
Johnny’s face is half-pressed into the mattress, and he’s hot, hurting, leaking hard and he has absolutely no leverage to make Evan move his hand. It’s a long minute, and then another, before Johnny fights him again, thrashing and jabbing his elbow as best he can into Evan’s ribs. He’s not going to beg. Fuck Evan, Johnny is not going to beg.
He suddenly notices his hips are the only part of his body he can move.
“Come on,” Evan says-Johnny realizes he wants him to fuck his fist. He struggles again and hits his palm on the bed. Evan laughs. “C’mon,” he repeats, lower, and he has to feel Johnny’s dick twitch in his hand.
Johnny is breathing hard, trying to think of an out. Evan noses his hair, presses his lips at the base of his neck and Johnny can’t think straight and then Evan slides his mouth up along his pulse, bites the back of his neck in some kind of primitive possession hold and okay, okay, Johnny thrusts. Evan rewards him by humming and twisting his fist, pressing up closer so Johnny can rock his ass against his dick.
Johnny knows he has to look like a total slut, spine curved and ass in the air, pushing back against Evan and grabbing the sheets, but at this point he’s so fucking close and aching that-Evan bites his shoulder and bears down on him and Johnny’s hips start to lose rhythm, and right when he feels like he’s not going to make it, Evan takes over and jacks him off so fast and hard that before Johnny can gasp, he’s coming.
“Fuck,” he moans, shaky and breathless, and he feels Evan smile against his back, where his sleeve slid off his shoulder. He should probably worry about how happy it makes Evan to beat him at something, anything, except for how Johnny knows the exact feeling and isn’t willing to give it up any time soon, ever.
His back feels cold when Evan pulls away-presumably for tissues-when he comes back, Johnny rolls over to face him.
He tries to still look pissed, but Evan’s so incredibly different than he was five hours ago, different than he was five minutes ago, pleased with himself in this really childish, ‘Wow what I did totally got you off’ kind of way-it makes it hard for Johnny to stay mad at him at all.
Evan cleans him up all careful and tucks him back in his briefs, which Johnny would fight off if he didn’t feel so good. Evan snaps the elastic one more time, but there’s no bite to it, just affection, and then he pulls Johnny up close, until they’re almost touching. Johnny would be more pissed about the whole thing generally, but the orgasm has him feeling warm and loose and sleepy all over, and now Evan’s idly rubbing the right side of his lower back, like he's somehow gleaned that it’d been bothering Johnny all day.
Johnny reaches down between them to jerk him off, but Evan swats his hand away, rolling on his back and stretching his legs. He yawns. “Blow me tomorrow morning. It’s late.”
Johnny looks at the clock. It’s 11:22. There’s absolutely no way Evan’s as tired as he’s acting. Johnny watches him for a long minute in the dark, suspicious, but Evan doesn’t roll off the bed to go watch TV or do laundry or knock over Johnny’s DVDs or whatever the hell he does out there at three in the morning. Eventually, Johnny huffs, lays down, and fits himself against Evan’s side. He holds Evan’s shirt in his fist. After a few moments, he presses his nose in his neck.
He feels Evan touch his hair before he goes to sleep.