беленькая (Ze Wodka) - Viacheslav Romanov/Vladimir Plushenko - NC-17
Title: беленькая (Ze Wodka)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Viacheslav Romanov/Vladimir Plushenko (aka Johnny Wier/Evan Lysacek in their Russian personae from Be Good Johnny Weir and Skate Great, respectively.) So it's AU slash of real peoples' fictional alter egos. IDEK IDEK
Summary: Two displaced Russians walk into a bar...
Notes: Unbetaed. Oh god, what have I done. XD I haven't written anything in a really long time. Apologies for my rustiness. This kind of ended up in a weird, more melancholy please than I intended. Suddenly my lolzy crackfic had FEELINGS, you guys. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you ninastya for helping with the Russian!
Originally posted anonymously to the winter games kink meme.
-------
Viacheslav Romanov hates Pennsylvania almost as much as he hates Delaware.
It's something about the buildings and, perhaps, the trees as well. On wet, cloudy days after a rainstorm in particular, every suburban street reminds Viacheslav of places he'd rather forget. It’s all very romantic and tragic in his own head, but Viacheslav knows that for the most part not many people - not many Americans -- understand. So when anyone asks, he just really hates Pennsylvania. Tonight is no exception, and when his business for the day is finished he bypasses his squat, ugly hotel entirely in favor of the squat, ugly bar across the highway.
It’s a typical American sort of place, all falsely rustic with garish neon signs behind the bar, but the dark, scarred wood of the booth tables coupled with the smell of booze reminds him of the miners' bars he'd practically grown up in. He recognizes the sort of men who littered the place, drunk and indifferent enough to ignore or miss completely the fact that his heels and fur stole are not attached to a woman. In the back corner booth there is a scruffy lump of fur coat and cap that he recognizes even more immediately. He makes his way over and stands nearby until impatience wins out.
"Vladimir."
The fur lump leaning half on top of the dingy table shifts and a hand comes up to push the edge of its fur cap out of the way, giving Viacheslav a view of little more than one beady black eye and a very large nose. "Viacheslav." His voice is hoarse, slurring against the end of the name.
Viacheslav waits again to be told to 'fuck off' in a boorish northern huff, but Vladimir just lets his head thunk down against the table without another word. Viacheslav has taken less as an invitation before. Settling into the opposite seat, he pries the mostly empty bottle of vodka from Vladimir's numb fingers and fills one of the shot glasses that litter the top of the table. It seems he'd put quite a few away before the waitress had thought to just bring him the bottle. Tossing it back, Viacheslav savors the quick burn of it, and then makes a face.
"Vladimir, why do I find you drinking pisswater in filthy Pennsylvania bar?"
Vladimir grunts and mumbles something about a dog. Viacheslav waits for more, listening to the tinny sounds of what he thinks is called "oldies" that play from behind the bar. When none is forthcoming, he soldiers on.
"I am in Pennsylvania for interview with Adam Rippon."
Vladimir's finger twitches.
"Yes, yes I know he is like poor man's Johnny Weir but his hair is so, what is it? Is springy. Color like honey. I like it." Viacheslav rests his chin on one hand, tapping his lips thoughtfully. "Very nice ass as well. His skating is very good, but is too tight. Very tight. I told him, I said, 'You need to be having a blowjob every night to help with tight skating.'"
Something that might be a snort ruffles the edge of Vladimir's fur hat where is rests against the tabletop.
"I know! He blush. Very pretty blushing boy."
Now Vladimir's shoulders shake a little and slowly he lifts his head off the table. His ridiculous hat still flops over his eyes, but the half of his mouth that is visible is grinning just a little. "Did he let you suck his cock?" His thick northern accent garbles his drunken English even more.
"He did not. He told me he was straight. I think he fools himself, of course. Silly American boys." Viacheslav sighs and pours himself another shot, knocking it back even faster this time to avoid the taste.
Vladimir takes the bottle back from Viacheslav and lifts it to his lips for a few long gulps. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat, he finally looks over at Viacheslav, though his gaze is watery and unfocused. "Perhaps you lose your touch."
Viacheslav scoffs and steals the bottle again. "Never. More time is what it needs. I remember one time it took three interview and trip to Norilsk before skater would give up to me. But he gave in."
The look Vladimir gives him is suddenly a lot more clear. "Da. He did. Cheers to you, eh?"
And then they drink.
-------
For once, Viacheslav is glad that the place he is staying is disgusting and indifferent enough that no one even raises an eyebrow at two drunken Russians stumbling through what passes for a lobby just before dawn.
Vladimir leans heavily against him, but remains on his feet, folding his long frame over occasionally to bellow a few bars of Russian drinking songs and soda jingles in Viacheslav's ear. His breath is hot and damp on Viacheslav's neck, stinking of three kinds of booze, and Viacheslav resolves to blame the shivers that run down his spine on the horrible vodka and the damp autumn cold.
They navigate a flight of stairs because the elevator is out of service, tripping over every other ledge. Viacheslav finds himself giggling along with Vladimir, giddy and undignified and not caring one bit what they must look like. The door to the room he's had for the last few days sticks right after it rains, and he has to let go of Vladimir to shove it open. Their separation doesn’t last long. As soon as the door shuts, Viacheslav's back thumps against it, Vladimir's hot, solid frame pressed to him from groin to chest, and then they're kissing. It's less frantic than he thought it would be, but just as messy, wet and urgent in the best way it can be when neither of them can even see straight.
Viacheslav turns his head to pull their lips apart, and Vladimir bites his jaw, mumbling against it. "When we met first time, I thought you were girl. Wooooman. Pretty blonde women with glasses and shirt with flowers." Vladimir shoves one of his legs between Viacheslav's, rubbing a hard thigh against his erection as if to remind them both how wrong he had been, though he doesn't bother to say it.
Viacheslav opens his mouth to say something cutting about Vladimir's sobriety at the time, but then they're kissing again, and Vladimir pulls him away from the wall with hands that wrap nearly all the way around Viacheslav's upper arms. The bed is much more forgiving than the wall, which is good because Vladimir all but tosses Viacheslav onto it, grabbing his ankle when he tries to kick Vladimir in the stomach in protest at being manhandled. Vladimir curses in Russian, yanking off Viacheslav's heels.
Everything is suddenly so warm and constricting, and Viacheslav wants them both to be naked as soon as possible. He takes a moment to remove his glasses, folding them carefully onto the bedside table, and then sits up to fumble at Vladimir's belt buckle. He's glad he remembered to remove them, because now he can't resist rubbing his face against the flat, hard plain of stomach before him. Vladimir has kept in shape and Viacheslav wonders if he is still skating, though the thought flies right away as the cloth beneath his cheek suddenly becomes skin when Vladimir pulls off his own shirt. Viacheslav licks over those perfectly cut hipbones, biting down with a frustrated growl as his fingers fumble again at Vladimir's zipper.
"Jesli ty hotjel zalezt' ko mne v shtany, tebe stoilo prosto poprosit'*," Vladimir chuckles. His voice is deep and rich when he speaks Russian and fuck, Viacheslav has been in America too long if just someone speaking his mother tongue makes him a little bit harder.
"Shut up, idiot blondinka**," Viacheslav hisses, and that just makes Vladimir laugh harder. He shoves Viacheslav away and strips, only stumbling a little when he steps out of his pants. Viacheslav lies back on his elbows to watch, but he doesn't get to enjoy the view for very long before Vladimir is on him, those large hands pulling his shirt up and off roughly, then sliding down his back again to push into his pants and squeeze his ass without even removing them.
"So proper, Viachla," Vladimir huffs, grinding his leaking cock against the front of Viacheslav's pants and groaning at the friction. Viacheslav bristles both at the nickname and the mess being made of his slacks. He squirms, but all that does is rub himself harder against Vladimir where their hips are pinned together. "I want make you messy. Can I come in your hair?" Viacheslav's hips buck upward, even as he knows he should protest the very idea. His cock likes it, though, the traitorous thing, and likes it even more when Vladimir hooks his fingers in the waistband of Viacheslav's pants and yanks them down just enough to press their cocks together.
"Grâznaâ šmara.***" Vladimir calls him a whore with one breath and beautiful with the next and Viacheslav doesn't care anymore, as focused as he can be through the haze of alcohol on how Vladimir's shakes when long fingernails rake over his back, the firm, tight curve of his ass and the sharp sound when Viacheslav smacks it just to make him gasp and laugh. Neither of them last very long, though Viacheslav takes pride in the fact that Vladimir comes first with a shudder and a grunt. When he pushes himself up a little to wrap those long fingers around them both, Viacheslav can't help but watch as thick ropes of come splatter up his stomach. It's more than enough to set him off and he folds up, biting at Vladimir's lips and jaw and neck as his orgasm pulses through him, sluggish from the alcohol, but leaving him with a lovely, lightheaded feeling.
It's Vladimir that stumbles to the bathroom for a washcloth, yanks Viacheslav’s pants the rest of the way off, and cleans them both up just enough that it's bearable when they collapse together in a sweaty tangle. Viacheslav thinks for a few moments about pulling the little garbage can over to the bed just in case, but dismisses the idea. Vladimir is no pussy American man. He could hold his vodka. Flopping down against his broad back and sleeping for days holds much more appeal.
In the morning, Vladimir is gone, but there is a business card sitting propped against Viacheslav's glasses. The front of it lists the name and phone number of a small skating rink nearby and the back bears another number in Vladimir's messy scribble.
Perhaps Pennsylvania can be redeemed.
-------
* Jesli ty hotjel zalezt' ko mne v shtany, tebe stoilo prosto poprosit' - If you wanted to get into my pants, all you had to do was ask.
** blondinka - airhead/bimbo/dumb jock
*** Grâznaâ šmara - filthy slut (feminine southern Russian variation that implies the 'slut' is also difficult, bitchy, or hateful)
Also, here is a really interesting discussion about Viacheslav's gender, if you're interested. I've always thought he was male. Apparently people have strong opinions in either direction. Fascinating!
Now with bonus rambling about ~OMG BACKSTORY~ in the comments. XD
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Viacheslav Romanov/Vladimir Plushenko (aka Johnny Wier/Evan Lysacek in their Russian personae from Be Good Johnny Weir and Skate Great, respectively.) So it's AU slash of real peoples' fictional alter egos. IDEK IDEK
Summary: Two displaced Russians walk into a bar...
Notes: Unbetaed. Oh god, what have I done. XD I haven't written anything in a really long time. Apologies for my rustiness. This kind of ended up in a weird, more melancholy please than I intended. Suddenly my lolzy crackfic had FEELINGS, you guys. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you ninastya for helping with the Russian!
Originally posted anonymously to the winter games kink meme.
-------
Viacheslav Romanov hates Pennsylvania almost as much as he hates Delaware.
It's something about the buildings and, perhaps, the trees as well. On wet, cloudy days after a rainstorm in particular, every suburban street reminds Viacheslav of places he'd rather forget. It’s all very romantic and tragic in his own head, but Viacheslav knows that for the most part not many people - not many Americans -- understand. So when anyone asks, he just really hates Pennsylvania. Tonight is no exception, and when his business for the day is finished he bypasses his squat, ugly hotel entirely in favor of the squat, ugly bar across the highway.
It’s a typical American sort of place, all falsely rustic with garish neon signs behind the bar, but the dark, scarred wood of the booth tables coupled with the smell of booze reminds him of the miners' bars he'd practically grown up in. He recognizes the sort of men who littered the place, drunk and indifferent enough to ignore or miss completely the fact that his heels and fur stole are not attached to a woman. In the back corner booth there is a scruffy lump of fur coat and cap that he recognizes even more immediately. He makes his way over and stands nearby until impatience wins out.
"Vladimir."
The fur lump leaning half on top of the dingy table shifts and a hand comes up to push the edge of its fur cap out of the way, giving Viacheslav a view of little more than one beady black eye and a very large nose. "Viacheslav." His voice is hoarse, slurring against the end of the name.
Viacheslav waits again to be told to 'fuck off' in a boorish northern huff, but Vladimir just lets his head thunk down against the table without another word. Viacheslav has taken less as an invitation before. Settling into the opposite seat, he pries the mostly empty bottle of vodka from Vladimir's numb fingers and fills one of the shot glasses that litter the top of the table. It seems he'd put quite a few away before the waitress had thought to just bring him the bottle. Tossing it back, Viacheslav savors the quick burn of it, and then makes a face.
"Vladimir, why do I find you drinking pisswater in filthy Pennsylvania bar?"
Vladimir grunts and mumbles something about a dog. Viacheslav waits for more, listening to the tinny sounds of what he thinks is called "oldies" that play from behind the bar. When none is forthcoming, he soldiers on.
"I am in Pennsylvania for interview with Adam Rippon."
Vladimir's finger twitches.
"Yes, yes I know he is like poor man's Johnny Weir but his hair is so, what is it? Is springy. Color like honey. I like it." Viacheslav rests his chin on one hand, tapping his lips thoughtfully. "Very nice ass as well. His skating is very good, but is too tight. Very tight. I told him, I said, 'You need to be having a blowjob every night to help with tight skating.'"
Something that might be a snort ruffles the edge of Vladimir's fur hat where is rests against the tabletop.
"I know! He blush. Very pretty blushing boy."
Now Vladimir's shoulders shake a little and slowly he lifts his head off the table. His ridiculous hat still flops over his eyes, but the half of his mouth that is visible is grinning just a little. "Did he let you suck his cock?" His thick northern accent garbles his drunken English even more.
"He did not. He told me he was straight. I think he fools himself, of course. Silly American boys." Viacheslav sighs and pours himself another shot, knocking it back even faster this time to avoid the taste.
Vladimir takes the bottle back from Viacheslav and lifts it to his lips for a few long gulps. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat, he finally looks over at Viacheslav, though his gaze is watery and unfocused. "Perhaps you lose your touch."
Viacheslav scoffs and steals the bottle again. "Never. More time is what it needs. I remember one time it took three interview and trip to Norilsk before skater would give up to me. But he gave in."
The look Vladimir gives him is suddenly a lot more clear. "Da. He did. Cheers to you, eh?"
And then they drink.
-------
For once, Viacheslav is glad that the place he is staying is disgusting and indifferent enough that no one even raises an eyebrow at two drunken Russians stumbling through what passes for a lobby just before dawn.
Vladimir leans heavily against him, but remains on his feet, folding his long frame over occasionally to bellow a few bars of Russian drinking songs and soda jingles in Viacheslav's ear. His breath is hot and damp on Viacheslav's neck, stinking of three kinds of booze, and Viacheslav resolves to blame the shivers that run down his spine on the horrible vodka and the damp autumn cold.
They navigate a flight of stairs because the elevator is out of service, tripping over every other ledge. Viacheslav finds himself giggling along with Vladimir, giddy and undignified and not caring one bit what they must look like. The door to the room he's had for the last few days sticks right after it rains, and he has to let go of Vladimir to shove it open. Their separation doesn’t last long. As soon as the door shuts, Viacheslav's back thumps against it, Vladimir's hot, solid frame pressed to him from groin to chest, and then they're kissing. It's less frantic than he thought it would be, but just as messy, wet and urgent in the best way it can be when neither of them can even see straight.
Viacheslav turns his head to pull their lips apart, and Vladimir bites his jaw, mumbling against it. "When we met first time, I thought you were girl. Wooooman. Pretty blonde women with glasses and shirt with flowers." Vladimir shoves one of his legs between Viacheslav's, rubbing a hard thigh against his erection as if to remind them both how wrong he had been, though he doesn't bother to say it.
Viacheslav opens his mouth to say something cutting about Vladimir's sobriety at the time, but then they're kissing again, and Vladimir pulls him away from the wall with hands that wrap nearly all the way around Viacheslav's upper arms. The bed is much more forgiving than the wall, which is good because Vladimir all but tosses Viacheslav onto it, grabbing his ankle when he tries to kick Vladimir in the stomach in protest at being manhandled. Vladimir curses in Russian, yanking off Viacheslav's heels.
Everything is suddenly so warm and constricting, and Viacheslav wants them both to be naked as soon as possible. He takes a moment to remove his glasses, folding them carefully onto the bedside table, and then sits up to fumble at Vladimir's belt buckle. He's glad he remembered to remove them, because now he can't resist rubbing his face against the flat, hard plain of stomach before him. Vladimir has kept in shape and Viacheslav wonders if he is still skating, though the thought flies right away as the cloth beneath his cheek suddenly becomes skin when Vladimir pulls off his own shirt. Viacheslav licks over those perfectly cut hipbones, biting down with a frustrated growl as his fingers fumble again at Vladimir's zipper.
"Jesli ty hotjel zalezt' ko mne v shtany, tebe stoilo prosto poprosit'*," Vladimir chuckles. His voice is deep and rich when he speaks Russian and fuck, Viacheslav has been in America too long if just someone speaking his mother tongue makes him a little bit harder.
"Shut up, idiot blondinka**," Viacheslav hisses, and that just makes Vladimir laugh harder. He shoves Viacheslav away and strips, only stumbling a little when he steps out of his pants. Viacheslav lies back on his elbows to watch, but he doesn't get to enjoy the view for very long before Vladimir is on him, those large hands pulling his shirt up and off roughly, then sliding down his back again to push into his pants and squeeze his ass without even removing them.
"So proper, Viachla," Vladimir huffs, grinding his leaking cock against the front of Viacheslav's pants and groaning at the friction. Viacheslav bristles both at the nickname and the mess being made of his slacks. He squirms, but all that does is rub himself harder against Vladimir where their hips are pinned together. "I want make you messy. Can I come in your hair?" Viacheslav's hips buck upward, even as he knows he should protest the very idea. His cock likes it, though, the traitorous thing, and likes it even more when Vladimir hooks his fingers in the waistband of Viacheslav's pants and yanks them down just enough to press their cocks together.
"Grâznaâ šmara.***" Vladimir calls him a whore with one breath and beautiful with the next and Viacheslav doesn't care anymore, as focused as he can be through the haze of alcohol on how Vladimir's shakes when long fingernails rake over his back, the firm, tight curve of his ass and the sharp sound when Viacheslav smacks it just to make him gasp and laugh. Neither of them last very long, though Viacheslav takes pride in the fact that Vladimir comes first with a shudder and a grunt. When he pushes himself up a little to wrap those long fingers around them both, Viacheslav can't help but watch as thick ropes of come splatter up his stomach. It's more than enough to set him off and he folds up, biting at Vladimir's lips and jaw and neck as his orgasm pulses through him, sluggish from the alcohol, but leaving him with a lovely, lightheaded feeling.
It's Vladimir that stumbles to the bathroom for a washcloth, yanks Viacheslav’s pants the rest of the way off, and cleans them both up just enough that it's bearable when they collapse together in a sweaty tangle. Viacheslav thinks for a few moments about pulling the little garbage can over to the bed just in case, but dismisses the idea. Vladimir is no pussy American man. He could hold his vodka. Flopping down against his broad back and sleeping for days holds much more appeal.
In the morning, Vladimir is gone, but there is a business card sitting propped against Viacheslav's glasses. The front of it lists the name and phone number of a small skating rink nearby and the back bears another number in Vladimir's messy scribble.
Perhaps Pennsylvania can be redeemed.
-------
* Jesli ty hotjel zalezt' ko mne v shtany, tebe stoilo prosto poprosit' - If you wanted to get into my pants, all you had to do was ask.
** blondinka - airhead/bimbo/dumb jock
*** Grâznaâ šmara - filthy slut (feminine southern Russian variation that implies the 'slut' is also difficult, bitchy, or hateful)
Also, here is a really interesting discussion about Viacheslav's gender, if you're interested. I've always thought he was male. Apparently people have strong opinions in either direction. Fascinating!
Now with bonus rambling about ~OMG BACKSTORY~ in the comments. XD