A/N: This story is pretty pointless and dumb, ngl. ENJOY.
It's hot and dirty with extra emphasis on the 'dirty'. The smell radiating off the Home team's empty locker room ain't too swell, and when Alfred forcefully shoves Ivan down on the bench – to you know, dance in his lap a little - he nearly slips on a misplaced stick of used deodorant. Okay, so he actually does trip and bump head with the larger lug beneath him in the most un-sexy way possible, but somehow, Ivan rolls with it, makes it right. Crazy Russian ingenuity or someshit – not as ingenious as American, duh, but just enough to pace with Alfred when he let him.
Hands settle on his hips and sweat soaked foreheads bump together. Alfred gets a front row seat (literally) view of the quickly forming bruise around Ivan's right eye and the red smeared on his chin. A grin forms fast on his face, canines showing; and Alfred croons, "Matty's got a real mean right hook, don't he?", only if to prove that he's not in it just for the sex. Arthur raised him after all – Alfred can be a gentleman and have polite conversation through important foreign affairs such as this if he wants.
From the glint that flashes through Ivan's eyes, Alfred can tell that the older lug Does Not Want to talk about how his twin brother just kicked his ass.
Well, too bad. (Bros before hos.)
"Yes," growls Ivan, who throws him a strained, dark smile and a hearty thrust of the hips to get Alfred going. "He is very spirited player and loves the game very much."
Oh, and Alfred goes all right, fingers clenched in the shoulders of Ivan's hockey uniform as he pulls the other flush against him. His mouth interlocks with Ivan's, whose lips are chapped and swollen, but neither of them really mind. They make out for a good five minutes, all tongue and teeth and heat in the cold air, before Alfred pushes them apart and smirks with Ivan's blood on his lips. Tastes like iron and vodka.
"Liked the part when you got slammed into the glass. This sport doesn't give me a hard-on like it does Matty, but that part sure interested me," he admits with a shiver, as Ivan eases his sweater, then shirt messily over his head. His glasses get caught and falls away with his clothes, so he has to squint to witness Ivan's expression. "What's that called? It's called a body check, right?"
( As if he didn't know what a body check was. )
"Hard-on?" echoes Ivan instead, tilting his head. Blurred vision be damned, it's … kinda cute.
"Uh," replies Al dumbly, until he realizes that one) he's a tactile kinda guy and two) Ivan no longer has his hockey armor on. Blinking, he reaches between them and cups a palm over the rising tent in Ivan's pants. "This."
Bingo! A metaphorical light bulb lights quite visibly in the Easterner's brain, and the Westerner pats himself mentally on the back for improving cultural ties.
"That is a body check, yes," starts Ivan slowly, innocently, as if still processing the thought, "So seeing me physically assaulted gives you this – how did you say, boner?"
There's a pause, followed by a grunt of frustration when Ivan smoothly evades another one of Alfred's kisses. Goddamnit.
"Look." Alfred settles back, balanced with diplomatic poise on Ivan's lap, and shrugs carelessly. "It makes me want to give you a lap dance. Now do you want one or not?"
From the way Ivan relaxes and tones down the 'I will choke you in your sleep' look enough to let Alfred grind down onto him, Alfred knows his logic is perfectly sound.