Title: Semi-Final Match (aka - Hockey is Serious Business)
Characters/Pairings: Canada, Russia, others; Canada/Russia/Canada
Warnings: nsfw, smut, hockey!Canada, consensual sex with Russia
Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz, I'm just borrowing them.
Summary: Who knew watching a world hockey championship could be so intense?
Five minutes into the third period, the Russian team evened the score.
Matthew half-heartedly threw popcorn at the screen, while Ivan sat beside him, smiling quietly. "Stupid missed pass."
"Ah, but did your team not score earlier when one of mine fanned on a pass? Simply fair turn-about."
Matthew harrumphed. "And I don't get why you're always so calm. Hockey is for cheering and throwing things and yelling at stupid refs who call stupid penalties, not enjoying like the cup of tea."
"What makes you think I am calm, Matthew? I am simply playing along with my team." At Matthew's blink, he continued. "Surely you feel it - the excitement of your fans, the adrenaline of your players..."
"Narrow it." Matthew swallowed - identifying that closely with his people, with so much embodiment, was something he avoided doing on a regular basis - and Ivan touched his sternum. "Try, please. It makes the game more immediate."
"Fine, fine." Matthew closed his eyes, and followed the threads that matched the television. Away from those watching on TV, but in through the commentators sitting above the ice, the fans in the stadium, the defenseman making a well-placed check on that damn Russian captain- He whimpered - too much too much too - and Ivan leaned in, running his gloved hand up and down Matthew's chest.
"Let go," he breathed against Matthew's ear. "You are all and none of them; stop holding to your here-self so tightly."
Ivan made it sound so easy, but- And then a switch flipped in his mind, and it was that easy. He was the forward being slammed into the boards, the fan pounding on the glass as the players collided in front of him, the wingman darting in to recover the puck, the Matthew leaning into Ivan's hand. "... Fuck."
"No wonder you've looked so distracted." (break-away two on one, shot goes wide) All that passion, that energy, pulsed through him, and he wiggled further into his seat, trying to surreptitiously adjust his pants.
Ivan just smiled, and (his screened pass makes it to the defenseman) tilted Matthew's head up for a kiss. A brush of lips, then teeth (he is checked into the boards, breath driven from him) nibbling his lower lip. Matthew pulled him closer, hands fisting in Ivan's coat, and Ivan followed through the movement to straddle Matthew's lap, breath hissing as his erection brushed Matt's leg.
Matthew leaned back, blinked. "You've been dealing with that since the beginning of the game." He couldn't bring himself to (attempts a three-on-two, puck intercepted in Russia's zone) make it a question.
"Makes one glad we are not human, yes?"
"But- That was off-side, damnit." On the TV, the first Russian crossed the blue line; one commentator wondered what the refs had been drinking before the game.
"The refs do not think so." (read the shot and butterfly, but the puck goes into the top corner - takes a gulp of beer while the Russian fans cheer and blow air horns) Another smile, with more of an edge; the goal signal flashed red highlights onto Ivan's hair. He opened his mouth, but a shower of cookie crumbs interrupted him.
Alfred looked down at them from behind the chesterfield, empty bag in his hand. "Some of us are trying to watch the game."
Russia's voice was even. "We are not stopping you."
"Your psychic shit's disturbing. And stop molesting my brother where I can see it."
"He's not" (puck drops and Russia passes it back) "molesting me."
Alfred's hand waved in front of his brother's face. "Hello? That faraway look is creepy, what drugs were you slipped?"
"Just experiencing the game first-hand." (he expects a rush down the center but Russia passes it to the side at the last minute, slipping past him) "You should try it sometime."
"Hell no, you look like you got rufied. Just stop or get off the sofa."
"Very well." Russia slid backwards, off of the chesterfield, and Matthew huffed at the loss of warmth. The sharpness of Ivan's smile eased and he picked up Matthew, carried him to the rug behind the couch. "We are off of the sofa."
Alfred opened his mouth, but Matthew glared. "Not your house, Alfred." (he intercepts the puck as Russia swings around the goal, tries to get it out)
Alfred snorted, and returned to his recliner.
Raivis opened another beer, handed it to Alfred. "At least it isn't one of us."
Matthew considered complaining, but Ivan straddled him again, (he passes back and forth, just ahead of the Russian forwards, waiting for an opportunity) one hand pushing him gently against the floor. He kissed Matt again, harder this time, and Matthew groaned as Ivan's erection rubbed against his own. He moved to lick Ivan's ear, nipped it when (he checked Russia, making an opening), then nibbled it gently. (and breaks for Russia's end)
(Russia's defence is behind him, and he crosses the blue line, feints, shoots, scores through the five hole)
Ivan pulled back for air, and to frown at Matthew. "Why there?"
"You thought you needed to reach up." Matthew knew he looked smug, but couldn't bring himself to care. "I fooled you."
Gilbert made gagging noises; Matt ignored him.
Ivan's smile was back, with a flinty look in his eyes. "If I were you, I would not be so cocky yet. You have only tied the game."
"And I only need to score once more to win."
Arthur knocked once, twice. He waited, and debated letting himself inside. Matthew usually answered the door on the first knock, and he had said he was going to be home... Yes, he'd taken a two-week vacation, and Arthur was vaguely aware that he had invited a number of nations to his place for some sporting event. Maybe he couldn't hear? Well, he was only dropping off some documents, there wasn't any harm in leaving them on the kitchen table. He opened the door and heard a sports announcer going on about "goals against" and "penalty kill" and "averages". Well, that explained it.
He walked in, stopping to take off his shoes, and proceeded to the living room. "Matthew-"
-Who was ignoring him, sitting on Ivan and declaring something about "five-minute majors" and "blood on the stick, you asshole". Ivan, for his part, had his hands up Matthew's shirt and was wearing his dangerous smile. Arthur's jaw dropped - the last time he'd seen that smile was when Ivan was threatening the US during the Cuban Missle Crisis, and Matthew was ignoring it?
He picked up his jaw, and opened his mouth to say something when he was poked in the back.
"'Scuse me princess, but I've got beer to serve." Gilbert nudged Arthur with his foot. "Move."
"Them? They're watching the game, ignore them."
"They're not even looking at the screen!"
"Ivan taught Matt some mystical nation-people-connection shit, so they're watching that way. Did I mention I have beer?"
Arthur allowed Gilbert to push him out of the way, sickly fascinated by the way Matthew's hips were rocking against Ivan's as flashes of pain and satisfaction flew across their faces. Then Gilbert was back, steering him to a chair and pressing a can into his hand.
Arthur started to become aware of the rest of the room - there was a Russia/Canada ice hockey game playing on a wide-screen television, with couches in front. The coffee table was covered in junk food and beer bottles.
Raivis looked over. "England..? I wasn't aware you had been invited."
"I'm just here to drop off something- There are more?"
Alfred sprawled across his recliner. "Finland and Sweden are on a beer run, and Denmark and the Czech Republic had to take care of things at home."
Arthur counted up the empties, the other signs that the room hadn't been cleaned in over a week. "How much beer have you gone through?"
"I dunno? Our budget was $7000 or so per person, and Sweden took the last of it today."
"You have spent more than Canada's GDP per capita on beer?"
"Over two weeks," Alfred said defensively. "And there's a lot of hockey going on."
Raivis jumped in. "England reminds me, Prussia, that Canada never said why you're here. If- If I remember correctly, you aren't in the playoffs of the championship."
Arthur could hear a "And don't even have a team" floating behind Raivis' question.
Gilbert smiled lazily. "I'm awesome, and every party is awesomer when I'm here. Duh."
Alfred snorted. "You mean you're crashing the party, and Matt's too nice to make you leave. Oo, break's over!"
Arthur looked down at the can of stout in his hand, and wondered that everyone broke off the argument when the action returned. He didn't understand what was so fascinating about it - grown men chasing a piece of rubber around a skating rink while giving each other concussions wasn't very gentlemanly. Matthew had once tried to explain it to him, but had broken off when he said it was more exciting than soccer and Arthur had begun ranting at him. He shrugged - free alcohol was free alcohol - and decided to at least stay until the end of the game.
And to make sure that Ivan didn't kill Matthew, but he would never admit it if asked.
His chair was on the end, tilted in for a view of the telly, but also putting Matthew & Ivan in his line of sight. Bastard Prussia probably planned it. He tried to watch the game, listening to the commentators to get a sense of how the two teams compared. And he noticed - as much as he wished that he didn't - that Matthew and Ivan were mirroring their teams, ever so slightly ahead of the television. Initiative shifted based on who had the puck - Matthew opened Ivan's coat when his team tried to score, Ivan changed the rhythm of his hips when his players began a game of keep-away. When the display on screen indicated the end of five minutes - some kind of penalty? - Ivan dug his fingers into Matthew's hips and began controlling Matthew's motions.
And he noticed that as dangerous as Ivan looked, Matthew was holding his own. Matthew wasn't stupid, he knew what that smile meant, but there was an unusual edge to Matthew, a bit of violence not usually on display. When Matthew's players were bashing Ivan's into the boards, Matthew was using teeth, and Ivan seemed to be enjoying it.
And Alfred wasn't bitching - sulking and pointedly ignoring his little brother, yes, but not bitching or worried - so it had to be all right. Alfred wouldn't have let it continue if he thought Matthew was in danger, and Latvia was almost relaxed, so Arthur decided to stop worrying and get quietly, desperately, drunk.
As much as it pained Matt to admit it, Ivan's team had done an amazing job beating off the penalty. The Russians were pumped, and the Canadians were having trouble keeping up. (puck drop and Russia passes to Canada's end) So was he, with the way that Ivan had slipped his hand down Matthew's pants and was cupping his erection. Ivan's fingers were gentle, but when there was a (shot on goal) his grip tightened, and Matthew bucked into his hand.
His players couldn't get the puck out, (fan on a pass and Russia takes back possession) and he groaned into Ivan's mouth: half disappointment at the handover, half pleasure as Ivan ground up into him (shot shot pass shot cover-the-goddamned-puck-already). More, he needed more (energy chances ice time) contact.
"Time out," he whispered at the commercial break. Ivan tilted his head, but released his hip, so Matt leaned back to go through his pockets. Since '96 he'd kept it on hand during world championships and- there it was. He dropped the travel-size bottle of lube onto the rug and pushed his pants down to his knees. Ivan nodded absently to himself and lifted his hips to allow Matt to pull down his slacks. His eyes followed Matt's hands as he poured a dollop of lube into his palm and smoothed it first onto Matt's erection, then Ivan's. The bottle was placed up by Ivan's shoulder, and Matt lowered himself back against Ivan as (skate back into position, ready for the puck drop). Their cocks brushed as (puck falls and he passes, is intercepted), and Matt hissed into Ivan's neck.
"Forgetting this body is not so enjoyable, no?" Ivan murmured, and nuzzled Matthew's hair.
Ivan chuckled, hands on Matt's shoulders. His fingers dug in, (Russia passes shoots shit) and he shifted his weight, twisted until Matthew was underneath him, pinned against the rug.
(dive to block the shot Russia scores) "Sacrament," he growled.
Ivan rolled his hips, and smiled when Matthew arched under him. "I believe you were saying something about needing only one more goal to win the game?"
"Nothing worth getting is easy." Was his voice always that breathy? But hell if Russia's rhythm wasn't delicious...
"Indeed? Show me." Even if the command was to Matthew-as-Person, Matthew-as-Game felt it and shivered. Two minutes remaining and (do this and take it and let's kick their asses) Ivan's tongue explored the shell of Matthew's ear, down the side of his neck, to play and nip at his collarbone, calm and collected as his players; Matthew's movements grew jerky as his players pushed themselves and took risks, his hands up Ivan's shirt and fingers scraping down his back. One minute remaining and (pull the goalie gotta force overtime standing pounding on glass come on you bastards) Ivan shifted, used just that much more pressure, and Matthew moaned, soft and needy and low in his throat. Ivan smiled against his neck, murmuring in Russian, and if he could spare the attention he'd translate it but there's too much to process.
Thirty seconds (Russia ices the puck close to Canada's net) and the rhythm broke, both men foregoing technique for contact; twenty and (puck drops in Russia's end, and Russia collapses the defensive net) Matthew's face was buried in Ivan's hair, fingers digging in as he tried to pull him closer; ten (shoot goddamn you) and Ivan's murmuring was replaced by panting; five (pass pass line up) and the tension was too high, arousal and the crowd and the game all tangling together; one (shoot gloved denied) and Matthew was coming, hard, that tension snapping all at once when the final buzzer sounded.
Ivan fell against him, weight mostly on Matt's side and shoulder; Matthew ignored it, too busy with breathing and letting go of the connections to the arena. An arm appeared over his face, and when he tried to focus a pair of wet facecloths was dropped on his forehead. He heard Gilbert snort, and a set of footsteps back to the couches.
Ivan stirred, propped himself up on his elbows. "Matthew?"
Matthew grinned, ignoring the scandalised look from Arthur (when had he arrived?), and lightly punched Ivan's shoulder. "Good game, Ivan."
Ivan's soft smile was back as he plucked a washcloth from Matthew's head, rolled to the side. "Good game."