Hockey is a Sexually Arousing Sport. Seriously. It's not Alfred's fault.
It is for a few moments, but it feels like forever, and that forever is too short.
Ivan glares at him through his helmet, his eyes like ice. Alfred glares right back at him, his blue eyes burning like fire and a different kind of heat unhelpfully bubbles in his stomach. The space between them is merely inches apart, and Alfred inwardly seethes in displeasure at this. He does not say it, but he wants nothing more but to lean in and crush their lips together and ravish that smug motherfucker's face. He wants to explore that mouth and press him against the ice and grind his body down until Ivan is feeling this _hotness_ that Alfred's feeling right now. But Ivan only concentrates on the game, and his face is soon gone from Alfred's line of vision.
He hears his team screaming for him to pay attention, so he swivels around and skates after the Russian. Ivan is already nimbly evading through Alfred's teammates like a snake, and Alfred grits his teeth in determination. He won't let him score. Alfred shoots forward after Ivan, a dull burn that he is all too used to after all the practice singing in his legs. His fingers are almost painfully wrapped around his hockey stick, and he's almost caught up.
Ivan is focused on controlling the puck and keeping it away from everyone, moving forward all the while. Alfred catches up with a swift inward thwack of his stick in an attempt to hit the puck out of Ivan's control. But Ivan has seen this coming, much to Alfred's surprise. He controls the puck with an almost scary precision as he passes it to another member of his team.
Alfred curses this in his head, and Ivan is about to skate away from Alfred victoriously when Gergiev, a heavy-set man from Ivan's team accidentally rams into Alfred. Alfred is surprised, too concentrated on the puck and trying to distract himself from imagining Ivan's hot breath on his body, and looses balance. He lashes a hand out, instinctively grabbing onto the nearest person trying to balance himself and ends up pulling the person down.
The person cries out a Russian expletive, or that's what Alfred assumes it is. They collide on the ground, the Russian on top of him. Alfred oof's at the weight, his palms pressed flat against the man's chest, their legs and skates intertwined with each other. He opens his eyes to push the other man off but pauses.
"Fuck."
Ivan stares down at him with those pale violet eyes with an unreadable expression on his face, and Alfred flushes. Because their faces are nearly centimeters apart, and he curses those goddamned things, he forgets their name, that block their faces. He wish they would just go away and that Ivan would close in those last few centimeters and ravish him. Against the ice. In front of everyone. Fuck he doesn't care anymore, he just wants Ivan. Wants him so bad that he realizes he wants Ivan's cock up his ass.
This is a horrible realization, because like their staring contest a while ago, Ivan is off of him in a second, and extending an arm out towards him. He takes it, ignoring the referees skating around them like flies and his teammates shouting words he isn't paying attention to because it is only now that he realizes he is incredibly and unbelievably horny.
Shit.
---
The game passes uneventfully, much to Alfred's dismay. His team wins, he knows this much at least. But the rest of the game is a blur of their uniforms skating on the ice. But there are no more accidental collisions with Ivan. Ivan has been taken out of the game and replaced with some guy named Ovechkin. Alfred concentrates on the game. Or he tries. He really does try. But he also fights the raging erection he has, cautiously skating around the other players.
Of all the goddamned places to be turned on, it was during a hockey match. One of the most brutal sports in history.
Fuck.
But now the game is over, and he sits alone in the locker room. His shirt is lazily strewn over his shoulders, the tight black thermal hugging his skin.
Alfred leans down to undo the threads of his skates, all the while sighing in regret at not accepting the invitation to go drink after their victory. He stops untying his skates, opting to lean back against the bench and closing his eyes. The feeling from the ice has not faded, and he still feels the small flush from Ivan's gaze lingering on his heart.
He wishes for a moment that Ivan would walk through the door, silently, and lean over him and just--
Hands press against Alfred's chest and he opens his eyes to bolt upright. The hands obstruct him and he flails his arms out, and one wrist is caught by a cold hand. He panics for a moment, before really looking at the person. He freezes, his eyes growing wide as Ivan smirks at him with that _still_ unreadable gaze.
And then Ivan's smirk grows to show teeth in an almost predatory fashion, and the hairs on the back prickle with something that feels like anticipation. Ivan leans down to him, and Alfred's breathe hitches in his chest. Please oh please let this not be a dream. Oh god this can't be a sexual dream. Alfred will _die_ if he's imagining this. Or maybe was pushed into a wall with enough force to make him pass out. Maybe this was all some kind of delusion he was having while on the happy gas they give you at the hospita--
And Ivan's lips are on his, gentle and soft and nipping lightly at his bottom lip. Ivan invades his mouth, his tongue exploring deeply and Alfred _mewls_.
And _oh_ it feels so good.
But it feels even better when Ivan swings a leg over to straddle Alfred and grinds his body down. Alfred nearly cries out at the sensation, the heat returning back tenfold as Ivan does something fucking _awesome_ with his hips. He reaches his arms up to claw at Ivan's shirt, trying to grab it and pull him closer.
Ivan's hands have begun tracing under his thermal and teasingly going upwards before on hand tweaks at an already perked nipple and oh my go--
The door opens and Arthur walks in saying how he thinks it was weird that Alfred _denied_ going out for food with the team. And then he starts bitching about someone stealing all his vaseline and _damn it_ his lips are dry because of that. But he pauses halfway once he takes a nice, long gander at the situation.
An incredibly awkward silence follows.
----
I really just wanted to write a horny Alfred stuck in a situation where he can't do shit. There might or might not be a sequel~
All comments are appreciated. c:
X-posted to hetalia russiamerica
Ivan glares at him through his helmet, his eyes like ice. Alfred glares right back at him, his blue eyes burning like fire and a different kind of heat unhelpfully bubbles in his stomach. The space between them is merely inches apart, and Alfred inwardly seethes in displeasure at this. He does not say it, but he wants nothing more but to lean in and crush their lips together and ravish that smug motherfucker's face. He wants to explore that mouth and press him against the ice and grind his body down until Ivan is feeling this _hotness_ that Alfred's feeling right now. But Ivan only concentrates on the game, and his face is soon gone from Alfred's line of vision.
He hears his team screaming for him to pay attention, so he swivels around and skates after the Russian. Ivan is already nimbly evading through Alfred's teammates like a snake, and Alfred grits his teeth in determination. He won't let him score. Alfred shoots forward after Ivan, a dull burn that he is all too used to after all the practice singing in his legs. His fingers are almost painfully wrapped around his hockey stick, and he's almost caught up.
Ivan is focused on controlling the puck and keeping it away from everyone, moving forward all the while. Alfred catches up with a swift inward thwack of his stick in an attempt to hit the puck out of Ivan's control. But Ivan has seen this coming, much to Alfred's surprise. He controls the puck with an almost scary precision as he passes it to another member of his team.
Alfred curses this in his head, and Ivan is about to skate away from Alfred victoriously when Gergiev, a heavy-set man from Ivan's team accidentally rams into Alfred. Alfred is surprised, too concentrated on the puck and trying to distract himself from imagining Ivan's hot breath on his body, and looses balance. He lashes a hand out, instinctively grabbing onto the nearest person trying to balance himself and ends up pulling the person down.
The person cries out a Russian expletive, or that's what Alfred assumes it is. They collide on the ground, the Russian on top of him. Alfred oof's at the weight, his palms pressed flat against the man's chest, their legs and skates intertwined with each other. He opens his eyes to push the other man off but pauses.
"Fuck."
Ivan stares down at him with those pale violet eyes with an unreadable expression on his face, and Alfred flushes. Because their faces are nearly centimeters apart, and he curses those goddamned things, he forgets their name, that block their faces. He wish they would just go away and that Ivan would close in those last few centimeters and ravish him. Against the ice. In front of everyone. Fuck he doesn't care anymore, he just wants Ivan. Wants him so bad that he realizes he wants Ivan's cock up his ass.
This is a horrible realization, because like their staring contest a while ago, Ivan is off of him in a second, and extending an arm out towards him. He takes it, ignoring the referees skating around them like flies and his teammates shouting words he isn't paying attention to because it is only now that he realizes he is incredibly and unbelievably horny.
Shit.
---
The game passes uneventfully, much to Alfred's dismay. His team wins, he knows this much at least. But the rest of the game is a blur of their uniforms skating on the ice. But there are no more accidental collisions with Ivan. Ivan has been taken out of the game and replaced with some guy named Ovechkin. Alfred concentrates on the game. Or he tries. He really does try. But he also fights the raging erection he has, cautiously skating around the other players.
Of all the goddamned places to be turned on, it was during a hockey match. One of the most brutal sports in history.
Fuck.
But now the game is over, and he sits alone in the locker room. His shirt is lazily strewn over his shoulders, the tight black thermal hugging his skin.
Alfred leans down to undo the threads of his skates, all the while sighing in regret at not accepting the invitation to go drink after their victory. He stops untying his skates, opting to lean back against the bench and closing his eyes. The feeling from the ice has not faded, and he still feels the small flush from Ivan's gaze lingering on his heart.
He wishes for a moment that Ivan would walk through the door, silently, and lean over him and just--
Hands press against Alfred's chest and he opens his eyes to bolt upright. The hands obstruct him and he flails his arms out, and one wrist is caught by a cold hand. He panics for a moment, before really looking at the person. He freezes, his eyes growing wide as Ivan smirks at him with that _still_ unreadable gaze.
And then Ivan's smirk grows to show teeth in an almost predatory fashion, and the hairs on the back prickle with something that feels like anticipation. Ivan leans down to him, and Alfred's breathe hitches in his chest. Please oh please let this not be a dream. Oh god this can't be a sexual dream. Alfred will _die_ if he's imagining this. Or maybe was pushed into a wall with enough force to make him pass out. Maybe this was all some kind of delusion he was having while on the happy gas they give you at the hospita--
And Ivan's lips are on his, gentle and soft and nipping lightly at his bottom lip. Ivan invades his mouth, his tongue exploring deeply and Alfred _mewls_.
And _oh_ it feels so good.
But it feels even better when Ivan swings a leg over to straddle Alfred and grinds his body down. Alfred nearly cries out at the sensation, the heat returning back tenfold as Ivan does something fucking _awesome_ with his hips. He reaches his arms up to claw at Ivan's shirt, trying to grab it and pull him closer.
Ivan's hands have begun tracing under his thermal and teasingly going upwards before on hand tweaks at an already perked nipple and oh my go--
The door opens and Arthur walks in saying how he thinks it was weird that Alfred _denied_ going out for food with the team. And then he starts bitching about someone stealing all his vaseline and _damn it_ his lips are dry because of that. But he pauses halfway once he takes a nice, long gander at the situation.
An incredibly awkward silence follows.
----
I really just wanted to write a horny Alfred stuck in a situation where he can't do shit. There might or might not be a sequel~
All comments are appreciated. c:
X-posted to hetalia russiamerica